


Year Three

by palateens



Series: Ace Off [3]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Ableist Language, Anxiety, Autistic Character, Drug Abuse, Dubious Consent, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Hockey Injuries, Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Love Confessions, Major Character Injury, Mental Health Issues, Misgendering, Multi, Nightmares, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Panic Attacks, Parental Abuse, Racism, References to Depression, Splitting, Therapy, Trans Character, Transphobia, Wedding Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-05-15
Packaged: 2019-05-07 05:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 33,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14664351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palateens/pseuds/palateens
Summary: June 2011Carl Moore, the general manager and one in a long line of dick bags in the Aces admin, calls Kent in for a meeting a week after locker clean outs.





	1. Summer

June 2011

Carl Moore, the general manager and one in a long line of dick bags in the Aces admin, calls Kent in for a meeting a week after locker clean outs. It’s not like he and Kent have never exchanged words. It’s just the first time he’s been personally called in for something that sounds more official than a half assessed attempt at a compliment. 

Kent takes a deep breath before knocking on the door to the GM’s office. It’s not like he’s at risk of getting traded or something. It’d be fun to explain to a new team that he’s barely functional and trusts literally no one. That’d go over super well. 

“Come in,” Moore shouts from inside. 

Despite his nerves, Kent follows orders. The office is fairly standard, with an oak desk that looks like it costs half most people’s salaries and extremely off-putting metal chairs on the opposite side. Looks like Moore didn’t have enough money in his budget to get comfortable seats, or maybe discomfort was the goal. 

He sits down with feigned grace and ease. It’s all one big game for the higher-ups, might as well put on a good show. 

“How are you, Parson?” Moore asks without looking away from his computer screen. 

His posture is as hunched and tense as his receding hairline. His red Aces tie only serves to make his skin look blotchy. 

“Fine,” he lies. “Something I can do for you?” 

Moore adjusts his reading glasses, eyes flickering to Kent momentarily. “Oh, it’s about what I can do for you, Kent. Can I call you Kenny?”

“Kent’s fine,” he says with an icy tone. 

Moore smirks, humming confidently. “The reason I called you in is to discuss your future with this team.” 

“Oh?” He fights back the urge to scream at this douchebag to get to the point already. He digs his fingernails into his palm so Moore can’t catch him bouncing his leg apprehensively.

“Well you see,  _ Kent _ ,”  Moore says, dripping with disdain. “The team is at a bit of crossroads now that we’ve won our first Stanley Cup in the club’s history.” 

Kent nods, gesturing for him to keep talking.

“Winning teams receive a tremendous amount of scrutiny in the years following their win. We need to prove to the entire league and the people of Las Vegas that this wasn’t mere luck of the draw.” 

Kent gives Moore his patented media laugh at his horrible pun. Moore eases back in his chair a little bit, facing Kent finally. Sometimes he hates how well he can read people’s intentions. Moore’s the kind of guy who doesn’t want a conversation. He wants obedience and adoration. Kent bitterly tries not to think about how that reminds him of another famous hockey player. 

“West is thirty two, and he isn’t getting any younger,” Moore continues. “Smith can’t lead the team by himself. We need to show that this season is the first step in a dynasty, not the last hurrah of a few players that finally got their act together.” 

“What are you saying?” 

“We’re making you an alternate captain, Kent,” Moore says with a smirk. “Congratulations.” 

It takes Kent’s mind a full ten seconds to process what he’s been told. 

“No,” Kent says simply. 

Moore raises an eyebrow, clearly schooling his shock. “Excuse me?” 

“Don’t do that,” Kent says. “I’m not cut out for that.”

“Humble as ever, I see,” Moore says through a tight smile. “Kent, you realize you were one of our lead scorers the last two seasons? Plus, you’re one of the league’s best in terms of assists and points.” 

“Having the A is about leadership, not how well I play,” he argues. “I don’t know shit about leading a team.” 

“I seem to recall you having previously served as an alternate for Rim—”

Kent’s glare cuts him off. There’s an unspoken rule around the Aces. No one talks about Rimouski unless Kent brings it up. He never does. 

Moore clears his throat awkwardly. “You have experience. You have a great rapport with the media. The future is now, Kent. It’s up to you whether you take the helm or have it thrust upon you.” 

Kent sighs, staring at his hands in his lap. His palms are so sore from digging his nails into them. He’s tired of fighting, of pretending like he’s ok. Maybe in a year or two, when Jack’s signed and they’re happy again, he’ll be able to think about this shit. But he’s a terrible leader and an even worse people person. Look at what trying to be there for Jack did. 

He can’t do this, and he doesn’t think he deserves this, either. Someone else should get this.    

“Give it to Carter,” Kent says. “He’s your third Calder winner. He fucking scores more than I do, and he’s great with the media.” 

Moore grimaces. “You see, Kent—”

“I’m going to invite you to shut your mouth—you know, just in case you were about to say something shitty,” Kent snaps. 

Moore nods. “Suffice to say, the rest of the country, and even some of our fans aren’t as  _ progressive _ as this team makes them out to be.”

Kent stops himself from saying  _ good to know we’re popular among racists. _ “Ok, so you want a WASP guy, which I’m  _ not _ , but whatever.”      

“That’s not what we—”

“Give it to Troy,” Kent interrupts him.  

Moore blinks owlishly. 

“He’s your top scorer. He’s white, and he loves talking to the press,” Kent reasons.

Moore frowns, pursing his lips. “We had some disciplinary problems regarding him this past season. His defiance—”

“Has nothing to do with his leadership ability and everything to do with how you’re wasting his fucking potential,” Kent says. “You want him to fall in line? Give him the A. Make him work for it. He’ll be the best of the best,  _ and _ he’ll give you all the credit.” 

Moore leans back in his seat, smirking. Kent has to bite his tongue to stop from smirking himself. This guy is too fucking easy. All these lifelong hockey guys were the same: stroke their ego, make them think they’re getting what they want, and they’ll move mountains for you. He really wishes he’d figured this out three years ago when it mattered the most.      

_/.\\_ 

For Calvin’s Cup day, they’re at the Smith’s home in Detroit. It’s a family affair, a small party for them to celebrate with their loved ones. His parents were only marginally supportive when he came out to them five years ago. They’d gotten much better, that was for sure. But he had his sister, his niece, and Marcus’ family. That was more than enough. 

Marcus still doesn’t know what to do with his Cup day, but Calvin hopes he’ll keep an open mind. He sighs. He’s holding a box full of cupcakes from Marcus’ favorite bakery. He just has to ask Marcus to open it. That shouldn’t be hard. 

He unlocks the front door of the Smith’s house. It’s surreal to think about how far they’ve come over the years, together. The house is from the 70s, and although it’s been updated a few times, the two sets of front doors have always been a thorn in Calvin’s side. It gives him a few seconds to stall. 

The house is overflowing with people. His niece, Janine, is running around with one of cousin Devon’s kids and the german shepherd that Terrence and Victor adopted the year before. The Cup is out back with Marcus and most of the family. Despite already making the league official sign an NDA, he’s still a ball of nerves. He chuckles quietly to himself as he walks through the first floor. It’s almost unreal how normal all of this feels. 

He finds Marcus talking to his dads next to where the Cup sits proudly on its display table. Calvin taps his shoulder, getting him to turn around. Terrence and Victor look on quietly with bemused expressions. 

“There you are,” Marcus says with an amused grin. He furrows his brows at the box Calvin’s holding. “What’s this?”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?” Calvin says as confidently as he can muster. 

Marcus snorts as he takes the box, opening it as Calvin reaches for the velvet box in his back pocket. The box contains cupcakes that read  _ Will You Marry Me? _ Calvin catches the moment Marcus’ face falls. 

When Marcus looks up, Calvin is already down on one knee, holding a platinum wedding band. Marcus gapes.

“I love you,” Calvin says. “I love only you, and I want to be with you...forever. Marry me?” 

Marcus licks his lips, which are twitching upward slightly. Victor takes the box of cupcakes out of his hands. Without a word, he kneels on the patio in front of Calvin. His eyes are wet around the edges, and he’s smiling harder than he did carrying the Cup. Before Calvin can ask again, Marcus kisses him with full force. 

He remembers years ago wondering if kissing Marcus was what it feels like to win the Cup. He knows now that it isn’t; it’s so much better. He can feel Marcus smiling as they kiss. He can’t tell whose cheeks are more damp, not that it matters. 

“You ridiculous mountain man,” Marcus whispers when they break apart. “You just had to beat me to it, didn’t you?”

Calvin smirks. “Wanted you to know how much I love you.”

Marcus chuckles, kissing him again. There is nowhere else he’d rather be.   

_/.\\_

Suffice it to say, Perry taking the Stanley Cup to El Paso is a big deal. They’ve spent the last few years giving back to their family here and there with their NHL salary. But it hadn’t sunk in for their family that they’re a professional hockey player until they were on TV lifting the Cup. Perry spends the morning taking the Cup around the El Paso Children’s hospital, talking with kids and their families and just trying to brighten some kids’ days. 

The party their tio Miguel insists on holding is at the family ranch. Most of their family and half the town shows up. Perry does a lot of hand shaking and small talk, but they don’t care. People are happy and proud of them. They have to wear a boring polo shirt and cargo shorts, but nothing’s perfect. 

His sisters, Nadia, Magdalena, Rosa Maria, and Teresa, all had varying reactions to the Cup win. Nadia, who graduated from vet school only a few weeks prior, had driven to Vegas to watch the last game of the finals. She came out onto the ice with the rest of the team’s family members, crushing Perry in a hug. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she said with tears in her eyes. “Siempre sabía que estuves destinada para algo increíble.” 

Perry cried for a solid ten minutes after that. 

Magdalena, still a reserved introvert at twenty-three, welcomed Perry home with a soft smile and an envelope. Under her expectant gaze, Perry opened it in front of her. It was a drawing of a wolf, half of its face made out of flowers. 

“I’ve been apprenticing at a tattoo place in town,” she explained. “I was playing around with some ideas, and I thought of you.” 

“It’s perfect,” they told her quietly. “I love it.” 

“You’re a desert flower,” she said simply. “Everyone should know that.” 

Rosa, conversely, gave Perry the most shit about being successful. Her chirps were relatively harmless, but frequent and obnoxious. 

“So when am I getting my present?” she asked just the other day. 

Perry balked. “What present?”

“The car I’ve been asking for since you got signed,” Rosa said indignantly. 

“Fuck no. You wrecked Magdalena’s car, remember?”

Rosa shrugged. “It was a shitty car anyway. I’ll take care of mine, I promise.”

Perry has always hated how inconsiderate Rosa is of other people’s shit. They think it has something to do with the fact that she doesn’t remember their parents’ divorce, or how tough it was to get by. Rosa probably doesn’t remember when they lived in Florida before their mom could afford to move back here. Rosa and Teresa’s childhoods were so much different than what Perry had lived through. 

“Sabes que, escuincla?” Perry said when her nagging had gotten to be too much. “Si quieres un pinche coche, debes trabajar por lo como nosotros.”   

“Fuck you, Mateo,” Rosa snapped. “Get off your fucking high horse. You’re not the fucking man of the house.” 

Perry had to stop from laughing right then and there. 

Teresa is only eighteen months younger than Rosa, but she’s probably the most normal out of all of them. She calls Perry twice a month to catch up on life and offer them her two cents. Perry sometimes wonders if it was a good idea to let their younger sister have so much input in their life. But Teresa is intelligent and patient. 

Winning the Cup finally convinced Perry’s mom, Dolores, to quit her shitty second job. Perry caught her looking at teaching certifications the other day. Dolores hasn’t talked about going back to teaching in years. It’s a good sign. 

Perry gets pulled out of their musings by a hand on their arm. They look down slightly. Their mom is smiling brightly at them while Nadia continues to do most of the talking for them. 

“We’re so proud of you, mijo,” Dolores says. “You really made something of yourself. I’m sorry I ever doubted you.”

“It’s fine, mami—”

“No, let me apologize properly,” she insists. “I’m sorry I was so tough on you before. I just wanted what’s best for you.”  

“Lo entiendo,” they say quietly. 

Dolores huffs with a sad smile, her shoulder sagging. “You’re a good son, and a good man. I’m sorry I haven’t always shown you that. But I love you, and I’m proud of who you are.” 

Perry’s chest lightens as their throat closes. She’s proud of them...for now. 

Who knows what she’ll think if they ever come out to her. 

_/.\\_ 

Nathan organizes a potluck for his Cup day. He invites his parents, extended family, and some friends he still talks to from hockey and school. On the invite, he puts from 8pm to midnight. He buys a bunch of cheap telescopes and encourages people to bring their own if they have any. There’s at least twenty telescopes out in an open field in his favorite park in Toronto. 

He walks around while people try to look through them, helping adjust their positions and pointing out interesting constellations and planets. He pays for a local punk band to play whatever they want for an hour or so. 

When most people seem content with their food and entertainment, he sits down on an old quilt with his parents. He glances over at the Cup. He leans against his mom, who cradles his head while his dad rubs circles in his back. 

“She would be very proud of you,” his mom says firmly. “Never forget that.”   

He nods, looking up at the direction of Cygnus. 

“Happy Birthday, sis,” Nathan says wetly. “Not bad for a dummy, huh?” 

_/.\\_ 

Jeff takes the Cup to Ocean City. Trish is there, and the neighbors know more about him than any one of his parents’ colleagues has ever bothered to learn. They throw a big party in the backyard of Trish and Josh’s place. Neighbors and relatives come trickling in. His great aunt Patty makes some snide comment about him that makes him realize he was the last to know he’s adopted. Not that it really matters anymore. 

“Your mother is on the phone,” Trish says at one point, taking him away from some of his friends who came up for the party. 

Jeff frowns, following her into his bedroom anyway. He takes the phone from her with a reluctant sigh. “Hello?”

“Jeffrey,” Natalie’s voice comes through, clear as day. “Your aunt tells me you won some sort of award in hockey? Congratulations.”

Trish is a mind reader, because she makes him sit on the bed while rubbing the tension out of his shoulders. “Yea my team won, uh, the Stanley Cup.”

“I don’t know what that is, dear,” she says bluntly.

“It’s like winning a Breakthrough Prize,” he explains. 

“Oh, why didn’t you say so?” Natalie asks. 

Jeff refrains from closed mouth screaming. 

“Anyway, I called because Trish was under the assumption that you might want parental emotional support at this time.” 

He glares at Trish, who shrugs. “Yea, uh, that was really considerate of you.”

“You’re welcome, dear.” 

“I should probably get back to—”

“Well it was nice talking to you, Jeffrey,” she cuts him off. “I’ll call you when I’m back from Norway.” 

“Yea, thanks,” he says as she hangs up on him. 

Jeff passes the phone back to Trish before running a hand through his hair. 

“I hate her, can I hate her?” he asks earnestly.

She glares at him before sighing and slumping against his shoulder. “Sure, why not?”

“What’s eating you?”

“What’s keeping you from hating me?” she asks honestly. 

Jeff balks. “Well first of all, you’re actually my mom.”

“But I di—”

“Second, you fucking raised me,” he argues. 

“Language,” Trish warns. 

“See,” he gestures emphatically. “Parenting.” 

“You’re right,” she rubs her temple. “I’m just—flustered.”

“Why?”

“Would you really buy us a bigger house?”

Jeff gapes. “You mean that thing I’ve been trying to do for three years? Yea, why?”

“I don’t know,” Trish says irritably. “No, that’s a lie. Josh wants more kids, and I feel so fucking old. I don’t know if I’m cut out for it anymore.”  

“What was stopping you before?” 

She pushes a strand of hair behind his ear. “You, baby. I didn’t even think about kids again until you were eleven. But you needed all the love you could get. How could I?”

“You have plenty of love to go around, Mom,” he says honestly. “That’s what makes you so amazing.” 

Trish huffs. “When did you get so smart?”

Jeff smiles softly. “My mom raised me that way.”   

_/.\\_ 

Osiel Jorge Ortiz Hernández doesn’t look up from his phone as he follows the line of people stepping off the plane. It’s an hour and ten minute flight from LAX to McCarran International Airport in Las Vegas. He and his mamá sent his things along with the movers a few days ago. She isn’t a fan of car rides, and neither is he, so she made arrangements with the people he was billeting with to pick him up from here. He doesn’t know what he’ll do without her, but he has to try. Worst case scenario, he doesn’t get signed and he goes to college next year. 

His music is at the highest volume possible. He’s been listening to the same song on repeat since the flight took off in LA. But Osiel doesn’t care, since it’s a good song and it eases some of his “meeting new people” jitters. 

Osiel follows the somewhat disappointing wayfinding system to baggage claim. He sees a blonde guy holding an Osiel sign from about fifty feet away. Honestly, he really hates calling attention to himself like this, but if it gets him out of this fucking airport, he’ll grin and bear it. 

“I think you’re here for me,” he tells the blonde guy, who’s currently looking at his phone. 

The guy looks up, blushing slightly. “Probably, assuming your name is Osiel.”

Osiel feels his lip twitch. He tries looking this guy in the eyes, and they’re the craziest color he’s ever seen. They’re practically purple with some flecks of brown and green mixed in. He’s transfixed. 

He doesn’t know how long he’s been staring when the guy says, “I’m going to take that as a yes.” 

Osiel nods slowly. “Sorry, cool eyes. Uh, those—your eyes are interesting.” 

The guy laughs, and Osiel takes that as a good sign, considering he’s smiling…

“Thanks, people usually complain that they can’t tell what color they are,” the guy admits.

“Well that’s shitty,” Osiel says without thinking about it. 

The guy hums. “Yea, you’re right. Uh, anyway, I’m Kent—” he offers his hand presumably to shake. 

Osiel just shakes his head. He expects some sort of expression of distaste or surprise to come from Kent, but he shrugs and smiles. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” 

“Cool, that was a first,” Osiel says mostly to himself. “No lectures or stares or whatever.”   

“Eh, some people don’t like physical contact, it’s fine,” Kent responds, apparently not perturbed by Osiel’s monologuing either.   

He follows Kent to the car, looking over his checklist while Kent rambles about how Vegas is and what there is to do around the area. 

“Awesome,” Osiel says as he shuts the passenger's side door. “So I need to go over some things with you. Uh, and probably more people. Fuck, how many people live with you?” 

“Oh, uh, one to four?”

Osiel tilts his head back, staring cautiously at Kent. “How do you not know how many people you live with?”

“So, uh, we’re currently in the middle of reorganizing the living situation of two houses? So there’s definitely room for you but...I don’t really know where yet,” Kent explains as he pulls out of the parking garage. 

Osiel thinks somewhat humorously that this is how he’s going to die. “Ok, so, ignoring that for three seconds. I still have shit I need to tell you.”

“Cool,” Kent says, “shoot.” 

“I don’t know if you know what Autism is? But that’s what I have and I need, fuck, like shit done in a certain way. Most of that I can take care of myself, but if we’re living together, you should know about stuff.”

“Ok,” Kent says. “I don’t know a fuck ton about Autism, but I’ve done some homework. The other guys are pretty chill, so whatever you need, just let us know.”

“Number one thing, I get distracted easily?” Osiel tells him, looking out the window. “I want a fucking routine, and I have a really precise schedule, but it’s just, hard sometimes? I guess.”

“Gotcha,” Kent says casually. “So, tell me if I’m wrong, but if we see you not sticking to it, you want a nudge right?”

Osiel sighs. “Yes that’s exactly what I’m asking for.”

“Cool, well, I got your back, and so do Goose, Perry, Swoops, Carter, Smithy, and West,” 

Osiel laughs. “Those are fantastic hockey names.”

“Thanks, we like them,” Kent says with a smirk. “Except Carter, that’s his real name.”

“Boo, why?” 

Kent shrugs. “Ask him sometime.”   

Osiel narrows his eyes. “That sounds like a trap.”

“Oh don’t worry, it’s a trap for him, not you.”

Osiel laughs. He has a good feeling about this team. 

_/.\\_ 

“Ready?” Carter asks the mite players on either side of the center line. 

“Yea,” a chorus of twelve year olds respond. 

He drops the puck, gliding backwards as the two peewee teams face off. The kids of the Little Schooners youth development league quickly forget he’s there as they dive into their game. Just outside of the rink is Carter’s mom and a few of the staff of the program. It’d been his idea to spend his Cup day showing the kids of Seattle that there’s more sports out there for them to enjoy. 

“You’re a real natural with these kids,” the social media coordinator says.  

“Thanks,” he says softly, attention mainly on the kids. 

“Our Carter is a young man of many strengths,” Dawn Harris says as she squeezes his shoulders comfortingly. “Isn’t that right, baby?”

“Mom,” he groans. 

“Sorry,” she says. “You’re working right now, I forgot.”

“It’s ok,” Carter says. “How often does the league run?”

“We do clinics at least twice a year if the funding’s there,” the head coordinator says. “The gym’s open at least once a month for practice, so some of the people at the front office come down to help run drills.” 

Carter nods. He turns back to the game. There are so many kids waiting on the sidelines for their shift. Kids came from all over the city and surrounding towns to get a chance to see the Stanley Cup in real life, but more than that, they love hockey. Carter’s in awe of how much his hometown’s embraced hockey over the last decade. There are a lot of talented kids with a lot of vigour. 

He sighs as his anxiety makes his stomach churn. He knows the NHL isn’t a realistic goal for most, or maybe any, of these kids. But he knows the value in a kid learning to believe in theirself and to have an outlet for all the bullshit in their life. 

He’s lucky to have his little corner of the Aces to know what he’s going through and back him up. But how many teams don’t even have a player of color on their roster? The NHL could use a swift kick in the white cishet ass. 

“How much would you need to do a year-long league?” he asks the head coordinator. 

The coordinator’s eyes light up. “Oh, well, I actually have a few proposed budgets in my office, if you’d like to see those—”

“Yea that’d be great,” Carter says. 

“Ok, and obviously they can be adjusted. You’re under no obligation—”

“He knows,” Dawn says. “And I’m sure The Calliope Corporation would be happy to make a contribution as well. Once I speak to our director of public outreach.” 

The coordinator’s eyes bulge out further; she nods before not-so-casually running to her office. Dawn slings an arm around Carter, hugging him tightly. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she says. 

“Yea, Mom, you keep telling me that.”

“And I’ll say it until the day I die,” Dawn reaffirms. “You and Darren are the best part of my life. Not because you’re successful—although I like that too—”

“Mom,” he whines. 

“But because you both have big hearts,” she says. “I love that you wanted to come here for your Cup day. It says a lot about the man you’ve become.” 

Carter blushes. “Thanks. I wanted to give back, y’know? And most of these kids can’t even afford a stick, let alone ever seeing this baby in person.” 

“You know the NHL isn’t for everyone,” she says. “But I’m sure there are a lot of NCAA schools that would love diversity on their teams.” 

He nods, licking his lips. “What are you saying?”

“Maybe Calliope will look into a student athlete branch of their Strong Beginnings initiative,” she says. “But that’ll have to start here in Seattle.”           

“Makes sense,” Carter says. “What about Vegas? You know, since I’m living there.” 

Dawn hums. “Maybe the Aces should look into something like that. Maybe they’d need a spokesperson.” 

Carter smirks hesitantly. “Yea, maybe they do.” 

_/.\\_ 

Izzy wrinkles her nose as they eat brunch with their mom on the couch, watching When Harry Met Sally. 

“I can’t believe you’re eating out of that thing,” she says. 

Kent shovels another spoon of Fruit Loops into his mouth. “Why not?” he says as he chews.

“Didn’t Jack poop in it or something?” 

“Yea, but, that was like—” Kent does quick math in his head, “fuck, twenty years ago? They disinfect this thing all the time.”

Izzy flares her nostrils. “You’re disgusting.” 

“You’re one to talk, squirt.” 

“Are either of you going to let us watch this movie in peace?” Mariana, their mother, chastises. “I thought today was about us spending time as a  _ family _ . Not bickering about twenty year old baby poop.”

“Ma, gross,” Kent says, dropping the spoon into his cereal. He grimaces. “Fine, I give up.”

Mariana rubs his upper back. “I’ll go make you some real breakfast. And you’re gonna finish it.” 

He sighs. Sure, part of him was really thankful that his mom (and Jeff and his mom to an extent) had put it on herself to make sure he actually bulked up this year during the off season. But when he was having a shitty day and nothing interested him, it was easy to be upset at having to eat.

Kent’s just ticking down the moments until he can see Jack again. Everything will be better when he can reach out and touch him. That’s how he’ll know they’re ok.    

_/.\\_ 

Kent doesn’t tell anyone he’s taking the train up to Boston. His stomach churns on the train ride up. He listens to some Britney, but it leaves an itch under his skin. As if there’s something too raw in the back of his mind. He vaguely remembers how pissed off he was at Jack the day Britney lost custody of her kids. 

He switches to a playlist of alt rock Jack used to love. He closes his eyes after he gets on the commuter train to Samwell. It’s been years since Kent’s seen him. He stuffs his hands in his pockets, fingers rubbing against the Cup ring. It’s been forever and he’s run himself ragged, but Kent thinks it’s been worth it. Jack’s in a better place, and Kent can finally show him how hard he’s been working for him—for  _ them _ . 

Google Maps says it’s another fifteen minute walk from the train stop to the actual campus. He curses under his breath. Maybe he should buy a second car, keep it with his mom so he has something to drive when he’s around here. The August heat is humid and unbearable. Then again, Kent’s used to the dry heat of Vegas. 

He laughs at himself, twisting his hat forward for cover from the sun. He doesn’t know when he started thinking of Vegas as home. It’s loud, isolating, and boisterous. It’s a lot like New York while being different in every conceivable way. It reminds him nothing of Montreal; for that he’s grateful.  

Kent knows next to nothing about Jack’s life here. All he knows is that the term doesn’t start for another week or so. Which means athletes are probably already on campus. Which means Kent will probably find Jack wherever the fuck the ice rink is. 

They’re in the middle of practice when Kent quietly walks in. His bro tank is loose enough that it probably shows off his scars. He didn’t think about that before, because most guys don’t know what they are. But as Kent watches a guy with a moustache talk excitedly to Jack across the rink, he remembers Alicia talking about how queer friendly this school is supposed to be. Maybe someone would know better, maybe they’d make a connection—  

Kent stops himself, because he’s here for Jack. No one is going to come between them, not even himself. 

He sits down on a bleacher close to center ice. Kent readjusts his snapback so he can see better, leaning forward so his forearms rest against his knees. It stops him from shaking his leg. The team does drills for a while before anyone notices him sitting there.

“Holy fuck,” someone says. “Is that Kent Parson?”

Kent makes a quiet, strangled sound. It’s not like he’s never heard someone say that before. But it’s the first time it’s come outside of Vegas. 

“Uh, guilty?” he admits. 

The guy with the moustache skates up to him. “No fucking way. No offense, brah, but what are you doing here?” 

Kent blushes more than he’d like to admit, his lip twitching slightly. This guy seems decent. And if Jack likes him, Kent probably will probably like him too. 

“Came to see a friend of mine, actually,” he admits. His eyes flicker to Jack, who’s glaring at him with a ferocity that he hasn’t seen in forever. 

He swallows. So he didn’t tell anyone he was coming. Because he didn’t want to hear quiet groans or see wary but reluctant gazes. He wouldn’t just show up somewhere if he thought Jack would answer back. Kent texted him happy birthday like he has every year. He bribes Goldie with tamales to remind him whenever a major Jewish holiday is coming up. He texts pictures of every fucking sandwich he’s made for Jack. He’s done everything short of texting “I love you. I miss you. I hope you’re ok, but I’m sinking.” 

He never gets a response. 

Kent gets a lot of questions about the NHL and requests for autographs. He answers as best he can, but a lot of his answers end in “I’m probably not the best guy to ask,” or, “but actually, Zimms would know a lot more about that than me.” The coaches ask if he wants to put on some skates and show the team how it’s done. He’s flattered, and he admits as much. But he really doesn’t want to impose. 

His eyes flicker to Jack, who stills seems tense, but less so than before. It was the right answer, apparently. Kent’s face feels numb in a way it hasn’t since the draft. Jack refuses to look at him again until practice is over. They have a complex system of cues built up over the years. He knows Jack wants him to stay put, so that’s what he does. Some of the guys ask if he’s in town for a while or if he wants to hang out—

“Maybe later,” he says a politely as possible. “I’m, uh, technically supposed to be on the other side of the country right now.” 

Jack comes out freshly showered just as the crowd of hockey players is starting to die down. That moustache guy, Shitty he called himself, pats Jack on the shoulder before heading out himself. Jack gestures silently for Kent to follow him. They end up in the basement or somewhere dark and inaccessible. They’re finally alone. Kent’s ready to kiss Jack or just fucking hold him like he hasn’t been able to in over two years. Except—  

“Why are you here?” 

“To see you,” Kent snaps. He gapes at himself. “Sorry, it’s—”

“Get out of here, Kent,” Jack tells him. 

The blood drains from his face. Jack doesn’t call him Kent. He’s Parse or Parson or Kenny. He’s fucking Kenny, for fuck’s sake. 

“But I just got here,” he argues. 

Jack scrubs his face. “You don’t get it. You never do.”

“Explain it to me,” Kent hisses. “I can’t read your mind.”

“I’m on thin ice with these guys,” he says. “You’re getting in the way and making my life harder. Again.”

Oh, Kent thinks. Of course people are suspicious. Of course Jack still has to deal with people whispering that he’s a coke addict, or worse, queer for Kent fucking Parson. The worst closeted twink in the NHL is Jack’s old teammate. So of course he has to keep his distance. 

Kent’s a distraction at best, a detriment to Jack’s wellbeing and hopes for normalcy at worst. He can’t be here. No one can know they still talk or else they might start talking more. Or else—  

“I’m sorry,” he mutters. “I didn’t, fuck, think.” 

“You never do,” Jack says. “Get out of here before you ruin everything more than you already have.” 

Kent nods. He pulls the ring out of his pocket, showing it to Jack. 

“I came here to give you this,” he explains, not taking his eyes off Jack. “It’s yours. This is all you.”

Jack looks at it gravely. His frown deepens. “I don’t want it. You didn’t earn it.” 

“I worked my fucking ass off to get this for you, for  _ us _ —” he stammers angrily. 

“You’re a shitty player at best,” Jack says quietly. “No one cares about what you can do, alright? Give it a few seasons, they’ll figure out how worthless you are on their own.”    

He doesn’t wait for Kent’s response. He leaves. Kent crumbles into a ball against the brick walls. 

Jack always leaves.  

_/.\\_ 

Carter’s playing a video game in the living room of West’s (Jeff’s now, he has to keep reminding himself). It’s one of those rare afternoons where everyone seems to be off doing their own thing. There’s a schedule for TV rights, but Osiel doesn’t come out of his room a lot. So Carter assumes it’s no big deal that his time has extended well into Ozzy’s.

A door upstairs creaks open. He faintly hears thudding on the stairs, but he doesn’t process it as being significant or different from the audio of the game. 

“Is this The Witcher 2?” Ozzy asks from behind him. 

“Huh?” Carter says without looking away from the screen. “Yea, I finally bought it.” 

Without a word, Ozzy sits next to Carter. His posture is a little stiff, like he’s waiting for something. 

“I’ll be done in a minute if you want the TV,” Carter says. 

Ozzy shakes his head. “I’m just here to watch. If that’s ok.” 

“Really?” 

“Yea,” he says. “Video games are...soothing? When someone else is playing.”

Carter nods. He doesn’t know if Ozzy hyperfixates like he does. But maybe that’s something they have in common. He gets through ten minutes of playing before he pauses. Turning to Ozzy who’s frowning. 

“What?” Ozzy asks. 

“Want me to start over? From the beginning?” 

Ozzy gapes. “Really?”

“Sure, the story’s good,” Carter says. 

Ozzy fidgets with his hands. He gets up, taking a lap around the kitchen island. He flaps his arms a bit. 

“Ok,” Ozzy agrees when he sits back down. 

“Cool,” Carter says. 

Carter returns to the home screen, starting a new game. 

“I might do that again…” Ozzy mumbles. “A lot, probably.” 

“That’s fine,” Carter says just as quietly. “It helps you right?” 

“Yea,” he says.

“Then it’s great. Do it as much as you need to.” 

“Stimming,” Ozzy says. 

Carter frowns, looking over at him. “Huh?”

“It’s called stimming,” he explains. “It’s how I regulate sensory input when I’m excited or nervous...or both. It’s self soothing.” 

“Cool,” Carter says. 

He plays for a while. They sit in silence except for when Ozzy gets up to stim. Sometimes, he doesn’t get up. Sometimes he just stretches or rocks back and forth a little. When Carter gets to a particularly hard side mission, Ozzy tells him to pause. 

“What’s up?” 

“You stim,” Ozzy says bluntly. 

Carter looks at him like he’s grown three heads. Ozzy rolls his eyes, pointing to Carter’s right leg, which hasn’t stopped bouncing since he started this side mission. 

“Oh,” Carter says. “I always do this when I’m concentrating.” 

Ozzy looks away, covering his mouth with his hands. 

“What?” Carter asks. 

“Sorry, just excited,” he mumbles. “It’s weird, I know. I have a weird smile.” 

“Don’t apologize,” Carter says. “Can I ask why you’re excited?”

“I’ve just never met someone else who stims,” he admits. “Do you have Aspergers or ADHD or something?”

“ADHD, and generalized anxiety.” 

Ozzy doesn’t get up this time to flap, he just does. He laughs with pure joy, and it’s really contagious. Carter waits until he says he’s ready to press play to the game. Carter asks how Ozzy feels about physical contact. He shrugs. 

“Not from everyone, but I like physical affection from people I trust,” Ozzy says, frowning. “...that includes you.” 

Carter bites his lip, awkwardly scooting over so their sides are comfortably pressed into each other. 

“How’s this?”

“Awesome,” Ozzy says. 

“Good, tell me if you want me to move away.” 

Ozzy snorts. “Doubtful, but fine.”

Carter chuckles. 

“We’re friends, right?” Ozzy asks after an hour or so. 

“Yeah we are,” Carter says. 

“Cool,” Ozzy says. “I’d put up with annoying bullshit for you.” 

Carter does a poor job of concealing a smile. “Yeah, me too.” 

_/.\\_ 

Jeff is watching some tapes Smithy and West gave him to look over. He’s on his third video, and he feels like going to bed. But everyone’s out, so no one will really stop him from watching a few more. He yawns, stretching his arms. A door upstairs swings open. He thought everyone had left. He looks up at the second floor. Kent comes shuffling out in the baggiest sweats he has. Which are from his days in the Q. 

Kent goes to fridge without saying anything. Like he knows the first thing Jeff’s going to ask is when was the last time he ate. He hears the microwave beep. He doesn’t look up from the TV  until Kent passes in front of it. 

He doesn’t say anything about the fact that Kent’s hoodie says Zimmermann. 

Kent puts his plate on his lap while he rests his head on Jeff’s shoulder. 

“What are we up to tonight, Cap?” Kent asks. 

Jeff snorts. “I’m just an A.”

“Just an A, and I’m just lefty,” Kent chirps. 

He nudges Jeff to take some food. Jeff frowns. “Taquitos really?” 

“I’m Mexican, I’m hungry. Let me fucking live,” Kent says. 

Jeff laughs. “Still thinking about that asshole who tweeted you last week?” 

“‘Immerse yourself in your own culture before you rip off mine,’” Kent mocks in a deep, lethargic tone. “I literally own a fucking panaderia. I’m Mexican as shit. People can fuck off.” 

Jeff nods, stuffing a taquito in his mouth. “We’re looking at college prospects.” 

“What are we looking at? Players for next season? What position?” 

“Forwards, hopefully for this season,” Jeff says. 

“What? Why?”

“We had three guys retire last season.” Jeff sighs. “Ozzy’s good, but he’s not a center.”

“And we need more of those,” Kent says skeptically. 

“They like me better on the right,” Jeff says. 

“Alright,” Kent says with a full mouth. “Who’s this guy?” 

Jeff looks down at his notes. “Matthew Park, he’s a junior at Minnesota.” 

They watch a highlight reel for a few minutes. He’s aggressive in his playing style, but in a way that’s calculated and precise. His hands are soft. He has speed, but he doesn’t rely on it as much as a good check. 

“He’s an asshole,” Kent says. 

“What?”

“Look at how many opportunities he had to fucking pass,” Kent says, gesturing emphatically at the screen. 

“His shooting average is great,” Jeff argues. 

“C’mon Jeff, you know better than anyone that chemistry matters a whole fucking lot,” Kent says. “Sure, a guy with raw talent can carry a fucking college team, but if he doesn’t know how to play with his fucking teammates, he isn’t worth shit out here.” 

Jeff frowns, knowing Kent’s right. Still, Park is the best prospect they watch all night—team player or not. Eventually, Kent falls asleep on his chest. Jeff grabs the blanket draped over the back of the couch, pulling it over both of them. He doesn’t bother going upstairs, knowing that Kent will just turn on the TV whenever his nightmares wake him. 

He inhales deeply into Kent’s hair’s, calming himself with the smell of Axe, cinnamon, and coconut. Kent grumbles in his sleep, nuzzling closer to Jeff’s neck. It’s better than Kent’s slept in two weeks, or maybe two years for that matter. Jeff wants nothing more than to take everything that’s ever hurt Kent and shove it somewhere the light can never touch it again. 

Too bad he can’t do that to Jack fucking Zimmermann. 


	2. Fall

“So I’ve been trying to talk to management about getting an outreach program going,” Carter says to Smithy one afternoon while on a hike. 

“Yea?” he says with a bemused tone. “How’s that going?”

“Not...at all,” Carter admits.

Smithy winces. “Ouch. What, have they given you the run around or—?”

“They keep making empty promises about setting up meetings,” Carter says. 

Smithy stops to pull out a granola bar from his bag. He frowns as he takes a bite out of it. 

“Have you talked to the owner directly?”

“No,” Carter says. “Should I?”

“Nope,” he says bluntly. “Not unless you want to lose your career.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Very,” Smithy instists. 

Carter huffs. “You think or you know?” 

Smithy closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Look, that dude is an asshole. You think Moore and Price are bad? You have no clue how bad Harvey is.” 

Carter eyes him wearily. “There’s worse in this rich white boys’ club than thinly veiled tokenism?” 

“Oh yea,” he says. “The one time I was alone in a room with that fucker I swear he wanted to kill me. And he would’ve, given the right opportunity.” 

Carter blanches at him. “He’s that racist?”

“More like psychotic,” Smithy admits. “Anything that doesn’t go his way just...disappears. I didn’t find out until way later, but my D-partner before West? Tried to come out. Harvey tried to blackball him from the league and have him ‘disappear’ for putting his reputation in danger. But one of the greats stepped in and told him to shut up.” 

Carter finds the closest, most comfortable looking rock to sit on. “Glad he didn’t lose his career but...that’s fucked up.” 

“Preaching to the choir, babe,” Smithy agrees. 

“So what do I do?”

“Watch your back, don’t push too hard too soon,” he advises. “And the second Harvey looks like he’ll snap, get out of there.” 

“So cower while he makes our lives and this team shit?” Carter says. 

Smithy tilts his head. His lips are tight as he sighs. “Basically.” 

Carter bites his lip. They’ve already been through hell with this team. They aren’t the worst in terms of homophobia, by far. But that’s thanks to their captains. He isn’t sure how long he’d last on another team. Or if there’s such a thing as a “good team”, for that matter. All he knows is that this team gets shot in the foot every time something decent happens. 

He wishes there was some way to stop that. 

“What do we do, Smithy?” he asks. 

“Long run? We wait for someone better to show up,” Smithy says. “For now? The same thing we’ve always done—keep your eyes down and focused on the puck.” 

Carter sighs. “Ok.” 

Smithy sits down next to him, throwing an arm around his shoulder and pulling him into a tight hug. Carter squeezes back just as hard. Nevada doesn’t look so desolate from where they’re overlooking the rocky landscape. It’s not pretty, but there’s more to it the more Carter stops to observe it closely. It’s worth appreciating in the quiet moments, at least. 

“Nothing’s going to happen to any of you as long as we’re here, ok?” Smithy tells him. “West and I, we got your back. Always.” 

Maybe they should fight for more, and harder. But Carter gets it. Smithy’s been fighting for so long, and did it for so many years by himself. 

“Someday, this team is going to be amazing,” Carter tells him. “And when that happens, we’ll have you to thank.”   

Smithy chuckles. “No, we’ll have  _ you _ to thank.” 

_/.\\_ 

Kent’s dreaming. He can tell because it took him five minutes to get out of room that he was drowning in, and he then proceeded to hide from Bad Bob for a lot longer than that. He gets lost in a Stanley Cup party where so many drinks are shoved in his face he can barely see straight. Someone calls him a pretty girl posing as a fag, and he leaves before he can puke what little is in his stomach. (His stomach twists itself into knots until it’s little more than skin underneath his ribcage.) 

He walks by a pier his mom took him and Jack to one summer when they wanted to hide from the hype of being the hockey world’s rising dream team. The air is foggy and so blue it looks violet. It’s buzzing with the kind of silence Kent has only felt once. 

He doesn’t understand the implications of this scene, but he knows well enough to run as far as his legs will take him. He runs past cities, tundras, and windowless houses. He chases his shadow to the outskirts of Montreal. He doesn’t stop until he gets within a block of the Zimmermann’s house. He grinds to a halt, panting uncontrollably. 

His house key is somehow in his pocket; he doesn’t question it much. 

Instead of the door creaking open, it blares a goal siren in his ears. It’s the cheers of thousands of fans and whispers of him acting like a cute little twink. 

_ No wonder Zimmerman likes to fuck him. He’s got a pussy.  _

Kent trembles, ignoring his instinct to run while he still has the chance. Because if there’s even an iota of proof that Jack’s okay, he’ll find it here. 

He stumbles through the entrance hall and past the grand staircase. He makes his way past the kitchen toward the basement staircase. Kent descends the stairs slowly, getting hotter with every step he takes. He’s suffocating from the heat by the time he gets to the bottom. 

A song plays in the background that he hasn’t heard in years. Not since the worst night of his life. He takes a shallow breath, preparing for anything. 

Turning a corner, he sees Jack sitting comfortably in the den. He looks over with a soft smile. 

“Hey, Kenny,” he says with a lopsided smile. 

Kent sees red. 

Suddenly, he’s strangling Jack, shouting obscenities and screaming, ”How does it feel?” without processing what he’s even saying. Jack goes limp in his arms. He cries uncontrollably until a searing pain in his legs wakes him. 

He spends the early hours of the morning crying, counting all the ways he’s hurt Zimms. 

_/.\\_ 

Nathan like his new therapist. He’s been seeing her for a few months, and so far it’s going well. She lets him set the agenda for their appointments. Most of the time, he circles back to things he never got to fully process, like Nehal’s death, but they talk about other things too. Things like the friends he left behind when she died, and how he misses Nehal’s girlfriend. 

Sometimes he talks about the team. He figured he was in therapy to learn how to be more “up” emotionally, and maybe to figure out what would make him a good person. 

The more sessions he’s in, however, the more he’s left confused. It’s a lot of sifting through old information to overturn problems he didn’t quite see. It’s learning he doesn’t actually have to be up to make someone happy. But it’s also learning how to give the right amount back when he can. And most of all—  

“So how’s Kenny doing?” his therapist asks him one afternoon. 

“I don’t know,” he admits. 

“Ok,” she says, jotting something down in his folder. 

“I just…” he falters. “You ever watch someone hurt theirself over and over again? And you just...wonder when they’re going to give up?”

“Give up as in…” she prompts.

“Stop,” he says, “let it all go.” 

“Nathan,” his therapist says. 

“What?” 

“There are two topics you tend to broach before backing off quickly.” 

He rolls his eyes. “My depression and my sister.” 

“Actually, your sister and Kent.”

Nathan nods, staring past her head. He fixates on a portrait of dahlias so he won’t have to look her in the eyes. They’re Kent’s favorite flower. He shouldn’t know that. 

“Do you think there’s a reason why the two most important people in your life are the people you refuse to open up about?” 

Maybe it’s because he lost one and is constantly scared of losing the other. Maybe it’s because they’re the brightest points in his life because of how much they love. Or maybe it’s just that, of the few regrets he has in his life, it’s that he couldn’t keep Nehal alive long enough for her to meet Kent. That he couldn’t save her, and he can’t save him.

“I guess I hate the idea of being vulnerable,” he says finally. 

“Vulnerable in general, or with certain people?”

Nathan realizes that he can’t remember the last time he thought it was ok to be vulnerable around just anyone. He grew up with this expectation that he would do well in school, have a successful career, and keeping running himself ragged until he died. Even when his parents are supportive and understanding now, he had a childhood of them instilling this sense that he has to be working harder. He can’t unlearn that overnight. His mind doesn’t work under the assumption that he can fail and that things will work out. The only people who’ve ever understood that about him—  

He licks his lips. “With anyone who isn’t them.” 

“We spoke a while back about why Kent pulled away from you,” she says. 

“He did it for me,” he recites mundanely. “Because he wanted to give me space to take care of myself.”

“Right, and…”

“And?”

“Well, from what you’ve told me, Kent is mentally ill as well,” she explains. 

“But he’s…” Nathan falters. 

He tries to find the words to argue. Kent tries to be ok for everyone else. He bends and twists himself into whatever other people need from him. He doesn’t let himself be vulnerable ever. He puts on a smile because he feels guilty for never wanting to. He’s a lot like Nehal in that respect. 

“Shit,” Nathan says. “He is.” 

“It sounds like he has a lot of self-loathing to work through,” she adds. 

“That doesn’t give him a right to just kick me out of his life like that,” he says bitterly. 

She looks up from her notes carefully. “Did he tell you, ‘I don’t want you in my life anymore’?”

“No…” 

“Did he ask you not to talk to him?”

Nathan sighs, scrubbing his face. “No.” 

“He’s allowed to establish boundaries, Nathan.” 

“I understand that…” he admits reluctantly. “But I don’t have to like it.” 

“Of course not,” she agrees. “But if you disagree with why he’s set these boundaries, you should think about a smart way to approach him.” 

It feels like false hope, the idea that they could just talk things out and it’ll be ok. They could work things out, date, get married—  

He sits further back against the couch. When did Kent become the best part of his life? 

_/.\\_ 

Carter’s thankful for Twitter notifications. The Aces management are particularly horrible at updating their staff and players about pretty much anything. So it comes as a surprise (yet not a surprise at all) when the news breaks that they’re planning a multi-million dollar expansion of their training facility. It’s not the largest practice rink by far. But it’s large enough to house a rink, some stands, a few offices, and the training and locker rooms. It isn’t extravagant like some larger franchises, but it’s on par with most teams. 

They’re lucky their owner gave them enough funding to building the fucking thing in the first place. But they’re only now putting it to good use. Moreover, he’s been trying to negotiate building an Aces youth outreach program all summer. 

He storms into the assistant GM Lee Ward’s office an hour later with his phone in hand. 

“Any reason we don’t have the money for the Little Aces, but we do for a training facility we don’t need?” Carter says as calmly as possible. 

“Oh, Harris,” Ward says. “What are you on about?”

“That outreach program my agent and I have been telling you about for months? The one you said there wasn’t any money for? Suddenly there’s money for a training facility.” 

Ward looks at his computer screen, then at his play book. Anywhere but meeting Carter’s gaze. It’s infuriating to say the least. 

“The owner has certain goals he’d like to attain within the infrastructure of the team before we get more involved in the local community—” 

“Does he want to move the team?” Carter demands. 

Ward clears his throat. “Not particularly. Our pre-season sales alone have seen a massive spike—”

“So what’s the problem?” 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Ward insists. “It’s seeped in politics and corporate games.” 

“My mother is the founder and COO of a Fortune 100 company,” he says very quietly, and with a calculated glare. “Try. Me.” 

Ward finally looks at him. His lips tremble slightly. 

“We...uh,” he combs a hand through his hair. “Look, kid—”

“I’m not a kid,” Carter reminds him.   

“The owner doesn’t give two shits about Nevada alright? Is that what you want to hear?” Ward reclines back in his seat. “He’s never going to pay for the goddamn program. One, because he’s never spent more than a day here. Two, because he thinks Vegas is a shitty cesspool where rejects come to die.” 

Carter rubs his temple. “So I’ll never get the Aces to sign off on a program.” 

“Sign off? Sure, why not? It’s good publicity.” 

“But you just said—”

“He’ll never  _ fund _ it,” Ward says. “And honest to God, you’re a good player. But if you poke the fucking bear again, he’ll trade you.” 

Carter nods in understanding. He isn’t surprised, but he’s done with the way this shitty team works. Just for once, he’d like something to go better than the clusterfuck their dynasty of mediocrity has established for them. 

“Harris, do yourself a favor,” Ward adds. “Make a foundation under your name. Take all the credit. Don’t let the Aces have a second of publicity from it.” 

Carter huffs, it’s almost a laugh. “Is that advice you should be giving me?”

“Course not, but what do I care? This place is a shithole,” he says. “If you get another Cup while on this team, it’ll be a miracle that you made for yourself.” 

“Then why are you here?” 

“They pay me well enough to tell Price he knows what he’s doing,” Ward says.

“You know being a bystander is just as bad,” Carter says. 

He shrugs. “So they tell me. Maybe I’ll learn my lesson someday, but doubtful.” 

The Aces in a nutshell, Carter thinks. The only place where even the good guys are relative to the sins of their superiors.

_/.\\_ 

2004 

Matthew Joshua Park is thirteen the first time he gets in a fight. He’s used to the other guys at his school being shitty. There was always a reason to hate on him. He worked too hard in school, or too little, if a single asshole did better on a quiz than him. His lunches stink, and his taste in music is off. He was too fat, and then too short, and now he’s too thin. 

Greg’s the worst of them, and he takes a lot of pride in making his life miserable. He thinks Matt’s weird because he already feels too old to play mind games. He’s tried following the crowd, being his own person, being kind, being patient, staying out of the fucking way. So maybe there were a hundred different reasons Matt should have stood up to these shitfaced dickheads by now. 

Instead, he does it because of a girl. 

Delilah Jones moved to Virginia from Arizona at the beginning of the school year. She’s kind, with a humorous twist to her smile. She’s intelligent and caring. Most importantly, she’s the only other non-white kid in his grade. Matt figured they’d be forced to interact eventually, because adults are shitty and think something as miniscule as watching Hey Arnold together could foster lifelong friendships. 

What he didn’t count on is Delilah sitting next to him at lunch the first day.

“Hi,” she says cheerfully. “Mind if I sit here?” 

Matt shrugs, because it’s not like anyone sits next to him at lunch (before seats run out everywhere else, that is). 

She pulls out at an apple and a thick sandwich from her teal lunch bag. “What do you have for lunch?”

“ Jjajangmyeon,” he answers. 

“Never had it,” she admits. “Is it good?”

“Do you—want some?” Matt asks. 

“Yea,” she says excitedly, before clearing her throat. “I mean, uh, it’s your lunch, so you don’t have to. But it looks good.” 

It’s not that Lilah is his first friend. Just that she’s the first friend he’s had in forever who isn’t an asshole whenever it’s convenient. They hang out on weekends. She talks about designing video games someday. He shows her his extensive VHS collection. They tear through every single Hitchcock movie. Sometimes they watch whatever’s on cable, sneaking in a Tarantino movie when they know their parents won’t be home for a while. They spend too many afternoons biking around town together, sitting in the parking lot of the 7-Eleven in their town. Matt learns how to shoot videos with his flip phone. Lilah practices drawing in the margins of her history notes in between reading software books borrowed from the library. 

For a few months, everything’s good. Assholes still antagonize him, but they don’t say half the shit they normally do with Lilah around. Matt really thinks things are looking up. Sixth grade passes, and Lilah’s family moves away. He knows her cell number and her AIM username. They talk all summer. Come the new school year, they’re still friends. But once he passes through the doors of his middle school, he’s alone once more.

The harassment is worse this year. Most of the guys’ growth spurts came in. They push him against lockers, into lockers, into garbage cans, and into toilets. He takes it because he’s used to this shit. It’s nothing new. 

Until Greg and his buddies learn a new word. 

“Bet you miss your little beard, huh, fag?” 

There’s something about the way that word slips out of Greg’s mouth—something so unmistakably vile—that Matt doesn’t care how or why Greg was trying to hurt him. All he cares about is making sure no one ever fucks with him ever again. Not about him, or Lilah, or anyone, because everyone deserves fucking better than this. So, he swings violently without looking. His fist connects perfectly with Greg’s jaw. 

The fight ends when one of Greg’s pals comes back with the vice principal. But by then, Greg has a swollen eye, cut lip, and missing tooth to show for it. Matt, on the other hand, only has a few scrapes on his back. 

It’s the first time he learns a very cold truth about the world. If he wants to keep his head above water, he has to learn to bite as hard as they bark. 

_/.\\_ 

2011

It’s one of those days were Kent can barely pull himself out of bed. He’d give anything to wake up next to Nathan. But as he turns over, there’s a gaping space next to him as big as the hole in his heart. 

He sighs, getting a grip as he screams at himself to get over it and be a fucking man. He’s too much. He hurts the people he loves. He needed to get Nathan away from him before he fucked him up too. He ignores how wet his eyes are in the shower, writing it off as the scalding water irritating his eyes. He lowers the temperature for a moment. 

Sometimes the best decisions really fucking hurt, he thinks. 

_/.\\_ 

Perry’s vacuuming the area rug in their new living room. The house next to West’s (now Jeff’s) house was up for sale sometime early in the summer. They had an agent put an offer in for them immediately after that. It’s still a work in progress, but it’s spacious, and Perry likes living next to two of their best friends. Goose moved in with them not too long ago, but they’re all still trying to figure out how to split two house between six people. Sometimes Ozzy and Carter crash there for a night. Sometimes Jeff hops over their fence if his pool is being used and he wants to swim laps. Sometimes Perry wakes up to find Kent making breakfast.  

A knock at the door pulls Perry out of their musings. They assume it’s Kent getting them for practice.  Rosa is at the door. Their little sister Rosa, with a backpack slung over her shoulder, chewing gum clacking in her mouth, and her phone occupying her attention. 

Perry blinks, hoping this is some bizarre dream. “What are you doing here?” 

“I ran away from home,”she says, not looking up from her phone. “Mind if I crash here for a while?”

Before Perry can respond, Rosa pushes her way inside. She lazily drops her backpack on one of the leather recliners, kicking off her shoes haphazardly and flopping onto the large sectional.

“Nice place,” she says. “Could use some more decorations.” 

“I know,” they agree. “It’s a work in progress.” 

“Slow progress,” she chirps. “How long have you lived here?”

“Two months.”

She sits up, scanning the room. She shakes her head disappointedly, just like their mother does. 

“And not a single mural is up yet,” she reprimands. “Aren’t you lucky I’m here?” 

Perry crosses their arms. “Why  _ are you _ here?” 

“I told you, ran away from home,” Rosa says as she rolls her eyes. “Keep up.” 

“Why?” 

“None of your fucking business, Mateo,” she snaps. 

The name stabs Perry like a thousand tiny knives. They want to make her explain herself. But Rosa knows how to cut deep when she feels threatened. So there’s nothing productive Perry can do at the moment. 

“Fine, but you can’t stay here forever,” Perry says. 

“And I need to pull my own weight, because family makes sacrifices,” Rosa says with a mocking tone. “I already heard this from Nadia, alright?” 

“Whatever,” they murmur. “Welcome to Vegas, princessa.”

“Don’t call me that,” she snaps. 

“Sure.” 

Thankfully, that’s when the doorbell rings, and Perry knows it has to be Kent. 

“There’s pizza in the freezer. I’ll be back at two. My game’s at seven. You can come watch if you want,” they inform her. 

Perry grabs their gym bag and heads toward the door. 

“Wait,” Rosa shouts after them. “Where are you going?” 

“Practice. I play hockey remember?” 

“You’re just gonna leave me here?” 

Perry opens the door. Kent sees their tensed face, and his smile falls. Perry sees Rosa’s car parked on the street behind him. 

“What’s—oh, hi Rosa,” Kent says as he looks over Perry’s shoulder. 

Rosa starts on another rampage. “You can’t just—” 

“There’s a mall five miles from here,” Perry ignores their protests. “I’m sure you have the gas to get there and money to spend.” 

“And if I don’t?” 

“I’ll put two hundred in your account when I get to the rink,” they tell her. 

Perry doesn’t wait for her reaction. They slam the door behind them. Kent drives them to practice. He remains silent, but Perry can feel his eyes on them every few seconds. 

“You wanna talk about it?” he says finally. 

Perry shakes their head. They know Kent would listen to everything—their family history, how their dad up and left them, how they’ve spent most of their life shielding Rosa and Teresa from the realities of how poor they used to be. But it’s not something Perry thinks they can get into it right now, and still play their best later.  

“Ok,” Kent says. 

He reaches over, squeezing Perry’s hand gently. They squeeze back, rolling down their window to feel the rush of air hit their flow as they drive into the proverbial sunset. Perry takes a deep breath before telling Kent to put on some music. Kent’s smile makes everything feel a little easier. They’re really glad they have each other to lean on when life gets messy. 

_/.\\_ 

Perry calls Nadia later that night. 

“Rosa’s here,” they say without so much as a hello.

“Oh thank fuck,” Nadia says. 

Perry can imagine her closing her eyes and praying silently. 

“She took off two days ago,” Nadia explains. 

“Was she staying with you?”

“Yea. She was crashing with Magdalena first.”

“Why?” 

“I don’t know, cariño,” she says, exasperated. “She left Mag’s because she told Rosa she had to talk about it with someone.”

“Talk about what?” Perry takes a deep breath before they snap. 

“She and Mami got into a fight,” Nadia says. “They haven’t spoken in a month.”

Perry may or may not be hyperventilating. There isn’t much that gets them worked up, but their family is at the top of that short list. 

“And you let her get all the way to Vegas? How—”

“Slow down, Per,” she says. “I didn’t let her do anything.”

“You’re her sister, you  _ raised _ us Nadia. If anyone can tell her no—”

“Callaté, it’s not about her being a brat,” she says. “And if anything, I’m not the one who bought her a  _ car _ .”    

“It’s Rosa.” 

“Yea, I know.” 

Perry takes a deep breath, stopping theirself from breaking something.

“So now what?” 

“Keep her busy, try not to lose her,” Nadia says. 

“Perfect,” they mutter. “Try not to lose the homeless sixteen year old.” 

“She’s not homeless.” 

“What about school?”   
“Make her go or don’t,” Nadia says. “We can afford to make her go back later. Fuck, make her get a job, I don’t care. Just don’t push her away. She needs her big sib, ok?”

Perry swallows. “That’s what I’m worried about.” 

“You’ll be fine, ok?” 

“Ok” 

They trust Nadia to know what’s best for them. Hopefully they don’t fuck this up. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Up the wing...break away…Pominville shoots and he scores! That’s three to zero for the Buffalo Sabres _

_/.\\_ 

They beat the Aeros in their home opener. It’s good for morale overall. They put Ozzy on Carter’s line for this game. It goes really well. Their chemistry is easy, and Ozzy is a reliable winger. Ozzy has a good rhythm to playing. He puts a hundred percent in on ice so when they get back to the bench he’s relatively calm. By the time their line is up again, Ozzy’s practically rocking out of his seat. 

It occurs to Carter that Ozzy has a method for working every aspect of hockey in his favor—from earbuds that cancel out the bass of the arena music to the types of undershirts he wears. Cellies with Ozzy are really good. He gives good hugs; the kind that are tight and take more pressure off Carter’s chest than anything. 

When they get back to the locker room, everyone is thrumming with excitement. There’s a lot of screaming and hollering. It puts Carter on edge, but he knows it bothers Ozzy more. They’re taking off their gear slowly side by side. Carter doesn’t know when they became a team, a unit. But he knows Ozzy has his back when his anxiety rears its ugly head. Just like Carter knows when Ozzy stops changing, staring at the floor, he needs Carter to have his back. 

He kneels on the floor, in front of Ozzy. “Hey,” he whispers. “What’s up?” 

“Hug,” Ozzy murmurs. 

Carter doesn’t have to be told twice. He presses their foreheads together, squeezing Ozzy’s shoulders lightly. It isn’t exactly a hug, but it’s what Ozzy needs when he’s overstimulated and doesn’t want to stimm in public. It’s something they’ve talked about, like how Ozzy can talk Carter down from a panic attack with hockey stats. 

He hears a couple of the douchebags on the team complaining. He hears one of them storming over, and he’s really not in the mood to deal with their bullshit. He’s ready to try his best to ignore them. He thinks he hears Roger’s voice. 

“What in the ever loving fuck—”

“Hey,” he hears Kent shout from across the room. He hears the quick shuffling of Kent making his way across the room. 

He physically puts himself between Carter and Roger. Carter only looks up enough to see Kent practically growling at Roger. 

“Get the fuck out of here,” Kent warns. 

“Why should I? These two are acting like—”

“Finish that sentence and I will slice your neck so hard, there won’t be time for a blood transfusion,” Kent threatens quietly. 

The locker room goes quiet. Carter moves away from Ozzy long enough to see everyone staring at Kent except for Goose, Swoops, and Perry, who’re acting like nothing’s out of the ordinary. 

“Anyone else have a problem with anyone else’s post-game ritual, you can take it up with me,” Kent says. 

He gives Carter and Ozzy a look. It’s soft, yet critical. His eyes look as brown as Carter’s hair. Kent storms out, Swoops following after casually. Carter shakes his head. He doesn’t know what goes on in Kent’s mind for the most part. He’s an enigma, that’s for sure. 

Ozzy puts his hand on Carter’s shoulder. Carter turns his attention back to him, they share a subdued smile. 

“Better?”

“Other than toxic masculinity rearing its ugly head around here? Yeah, thanks.” Ozzy says quietly. 

Carter chuckles. “The NHL comes at a price.” 

“Does it have to? Seems pointless.” 

“No,” Carter says slowly, thinking. “I guess it doesn’t.” 

“Maybe this team will be less shitty someday,” Ozzy reasons. 

Carter nods, noticing how most of the assholes on the team have already shuffled out. “Y’know, I think we’re getting there.” 

_/.\\_ 

Kent finds himself screaming into a Rimouski jersey in the backseat of his car. Ozzy isn’t Jack, but he sure as fuck would be blind if he didn’t notice that Ozzy needs a lot of the same things Jack did. The only difference is that Ozzy has a support system, that he  _ wants _ one, so of course he’s not going to push people away when they want to be there for him. 

He wants to tear his hair out. It’s not like he’s blind. He knows Carter and Ozzy are going to circle around each other for a while, probably fall in love. They’ll probably be fine, considering they’re nothing like Kent and Jack. Which really, Kent knows is for the best. But he’s sick and tired of not knowing how to fix things. 

There’s a knock on the window. He buries his face deeper in the jersey. 

“Kent, let me in,” Jeff says. 

Kent groans, knowing any attempt to get away will be thwarted by Jeff. Without looking up, he reaches for the door in front of him, unlocking it and pushing it open slightly. Jeff opens it wider, scooching Kent over before sitting down next to him. Jeff doesn’t say anything at first. He just cards a hand through Kent’s messy, wavy hair. 

He keeps his head in the jersey, eventually deciding to use Jeff’s lap as a pillow. 

“You gonna fight half the team after every game?”

Kent snorts. “No.” 

“Then what the fuck,” 

He shrugs. 

Jeff sighs. “We’re not rookies anymore. You can’t keep pulling this—”

“This what?” 

“This chauvinistic bullshit,” Jeff says. “Carter can take care of himself.”

“He shouldn’t have to, not from homophobes in his own goddamn locker room,” Kent argues. “And not for helping Ozzy out.” 

Jeff scrubs his face. “We’re working on it, ok? Change is slow.” 

“Yea ok,” Kent grumbles. 

“Now tell me why the fuck you have a Zimmermann jersey in your car.” 

“Does it matter?”

“I just think it’s a little weird that you still have your ex’s jersey,” Jeff says. 

Kent stops himself from violently shoving him out of the car. It’s the first time anyone’s referred to Jack as his ex. But it’s true. He’s had one conversation with Jack in the last three years, and that was Jack telling him to get lost. He still loves Jack with every fiber of his being. If they’re not meant to be right now, he’s just going to have to accept that. 

“It’s all I have left,” Kent says. 

Jeff doesn’t say anything; he just keeps running a hand through Kent’s hair. When Kent starts to doze off, Jeff nudges him. 

“C’mon, let's go home,” Jeff says. 

Kent doesn’t care that he’s still in his pads. 

“Put your seatbelt on,” he tells Kent when he starts the car. 

“No,” Kent says. 

“I’m not letting you get hurt,” Jeff says curtly. “C’mon, I care about you.”

Kent hasn’t heard anyone say that in years. He sits up without further protest. He puts on his seatbelt and stares out the window as they drive home. The sky is radiating with light pollution. There are people still trickling out of the arena. He rolls his window down, sucking in as much air as possible. Maybe the right amount of fresh air will restart his heart. Maybe some people come back from the dead entirely different. He hasn’t stopped playing long enough to consider how different twenty-one-year-old Jack is from eighteen year old Jack. 

Jeff hums Springsteen from memory as Kent puts his head out the window.  One thing’s for sure. It’s nothing like Quebec. 

He can’t tell if that’s a good thing. He’ll just have to wait and see. 

_/.\\_ 

2004 

Matt’s parents are called into school. They listen quietly as the principal explains the situation to them. Their faces are grave, and Matt can feel his mother squeeze his shoulder tightly. He expects them to be furious. He’s sure that he’s gotten himself a one-way ticket to spend the summer in Boston with his cousin with the lisp who spends all her time working at the public library. 

“Thank you for calling us in,” his mother says when the principal is done speaking. “I believe we can reach an agreement so we won’t have to take this to court.” 

“We don’t plan on pressing charges this time, ma’am,” the principal says. 

“Who said anything about you pressing charges?” His mother looks past him at his father. 

“Principal Smith,” his father says as he leans forward. “You realize that you allowed a child to harass our son on school grounds? And he acted out of self-defense?” 

“He retaliated with violence—”

“Yes, and from what your recount, it sounds as if this isn’t the first time this boy has been allowed to cause harm to our son,” his father says. 

“There have been a few instances in the past where Matthew here has expressed some unsavory behavior on his classmates’ part.” 

“And you allowed this to continue?” his mother says. 

“Well, uh,” the principal trails off. 

The assistant principal jumps in. “I’m very sorry about this, folks. I was unaware that this was an ongoing conflict between them.” 

“Then you should be fired for negligence, and he,” his mother says as she points to the principal, “should be fired for gross incompetence and endangering children.” 

His father stands up, coaxing Matthew to stand. 

“Our lawyer will be contacting the superintendent about this matter,” he says. “In the meantime, we’ll be looking at other educational options for our son. Good day.” 

His parents usher him out quickly. They don’t say as they drive him home. He doesn’t push a conversation, because he’s still in awe that they took his side. He has a black eye and a bruised rib, but his parents stood up for him like no one ever has before. A pang of guilt hits him; maybe if he’d mentioned something before—

“We’ll be looking at new school options in the morning,” his mother says. “Tonight you will rest. We will feed you, and we are going to sign you up for a sport.” 

That throws him off guard. “What? Why?”   

“That school isn’t keeping you safe, did you think we were going to make you go back there?” his father says. 

“No not that, signing me up for a sport?” he clarifies. “I’m not athletic and sports—” 

“If you have the energy to fight, you have the energy to play a sport,” his mother argues. 

“I don’t want to run around like a sweaty idiot—”

“This isn’t a discussion, Matthew,” she continues. “We know why you acted as you did, but what if we can’t be there? What, will you get yourself arrested? Will you put yourself in more danger to prove that you are better than them?”

“Omma—”

“I was scared,” she interrupts. “Your school calls to say you were in a fight. I didn’t know if you had broken anything or if you were bleeding or dead.”   

“They would’ve told—”

“That isn’t the point,” she insists. “You have so much talent and strength. You have to stop being so impulsive.” 

He snaps his mouth shut. 

“You will find a sport that suits you, and you will give it your all,” she continues as she wipes her eyes. “The nearest public school is too far to drive you, which means either I quit my job and homeschool you, or you go to the expensive prep school outside of town.” 

Paying for school means a tighter budget, and maybe no more college fund, he realizes. He hates those assholes, but he knows that money talks in that school. Which means even more coming out of his parents wallets if he fucks up, or they have to pay the school off to enforce their own rules.

“Yes ma’am,” he says finally. 

She sighs. “I’m sorry. I know this isn’t what you want.”

For as much as that’s true, he also knows that this is more than most parents would do. Some people think their parents would do anything for them, but he has the luxury of knowing his really would. 

“Ok,” he says quietly. “I’ll be better, I promise.” 

His mother doesn’t let go of him all that night. She clutches him tightly as she reminds him how much she loves him, how he’s her shining star. His father puts on some old movies and cooks dinner as he looks up scholarship options and different skill clinics. 

“What about hockey?” his father says at one point. “The NHL team practices not too far from here.” 

Matthew really wants to say that burly white men fighting on ice sounds like the exact opposite of fun. But he’s sick of hearing about football, basketball, and baseball as if they’re interesting. 

“Ok,” Matthew says. “I’ll give it a shot.” 

_/.\\_ 

2011

Kent doesn’t go out after wins because he doesn’t trust himself not to drink. Nathan knows this because of a fight before a party they had almost a year before. He knows that if Kent is planning on going out, it means that he’s not ok. Sometimes it’s not very severe, and it’s ok, because that’s how Nathan copes too. 

No one’s seen Kent all night. He was scratched from the game because of an “unspecified lower body injury.” In reality, every once in a while no one can drag Kent out of bed. Nathan isn’t sure he’s allowed to try, so he lets it be.

Jeff texts Kent after the game to see if he wants to come out while they celebrate, but he declines. Nathan doesn’t think much of it. Part of him is kind of relieved. 

That was before they came home half drunk to find there was no trace of Kent anywhere. It makes his blood run cold, immediately killing his buzz. 

Nathan lies and says he got a text saying Kent was going out for groceries. He doesn’t want to lie, but he also knows that the last thing Kent wants is a search party. 

Before some semblance of a plan can form in his head, he gets a call. 

“Can you come pick me up?” Kent says. 

“Where are you?” he asks calmly. 

“Gay bar on the other side of town. I can text you the address,” Kent says before hanging up. 

Nathan sighs, but he counts his blessings as a text comes immediately after. He calls a cab and pays the driver extra to keep the meter running. He mentally prepares himself to comb through a crowded bar to find Kent. 

Kent’s sitting on the curb outside of the bar. Nathan breathes easier. 

“Thank fuck,” he says as sits down next to Kent. 

“Hey,” Kent murmurs. “Thanks for coming to get me.” 

“What happened?” 

Kent shakes his head, trembling. 

“Kenny,” he says quietly. “Are you ok?” 

He shakes his head. 

“Are you sober?” 

Kent nods. 

“Did you get hurt?” Nathan coaxes.

“Think I fucked up my foot,” he says quietly. 

“How?” he says a little too quickly. 

Kent stiffens. Nathan kicks himself for not being more careful. When Kent’s having a hard time, he’s skittish at best. 

“Ok, I’m going to help you up and we’re going to get your foot checked out ok?” 

Kent tries to stand, but he has to bite back a scream when he puts weight on his left foot. Nathan picks him up and gets him into the cab. He clings to Nathan, who holds him tightly. 

“Do we have to go to a hospital?” Kent asks tentatively. 

Nathan takes a shaky breath. Part of him is still scared out of his mind for Kent, but the rest is irrationally angry for everything that’s made Kent hate hospitals. For everyone who abandoned him in one when he needed support the most. 

“I’ll be right there, ok,” Nathan murmurs. “You won’t have to deal with it alone.” 

After a long night of x-rays and calls to Jeff and Perry (and a very long lecture from Perry) it turns out to be a broken toe. The doctor puts Kent in a boot with instructions to keep it elevated for a while. He puts up a good front, but Nathan can see the anxiety and trauma bubbling up the longer he’s there. 

When they get home, Nathan helps him to bed. If Perry and Jeff climb in too, he only notices because of how much calmer they both feel with them around. It’s been a terrible night, but at least they have each other. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Cammalleri passes to Blunden...West comes to intercept and—oh goes against the glass...West doesn’t seem to be getting up...    _

_/.\\_ 

July 2011 

They plan a small ceremony in Vancouver so Calvin’s sisters don’t have a long way to commute and so Marcus’ family gets a well deserved vacation to somewhere moderately warm. The ceremony is at sunset on a cliff overlooking the coast. Calvin walks in first with Kent and Perry escorting him up to the altar. 

Music flows softly as Goose, Swoops, and Carter file in behind them. Marcus is walked down the aisle to their song with his dads by his side. They were going to do a coin flip for who went up at which point, but Calvin pointed out that Marcus was the only one who could get walked down the aisle by family. 

Not that Calvin’s sisters aren't supportive. But they weren’t in the wedding party, and it didn’t feel the same. Everyone could feel his parents’ absence from the ceremony. Marcus watches Calvin watch him like he’s the only thing in the world. He catches the brief moment where he looks across the room, as if hoping his parents are just late. 

Marcus puts a gentle hand to his cheek. “I know, baby. I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

He swears Calvin’s eyes sparkle with tears, but also something like joy. Calvin clears his throat.

“I have you and our family,” Calvin whispers back. “I’m ok.” 

Marcus doesn’t believe him, but he accepts that this is their normal. This is who they’re going to be, and their family will keep growing, without the people who raised the love of his life. 

They flew the minister in from Detroit because neither Marcus nor his dads would have him be married by anyone else. He keeps trying to stay in the moment, to pay attention to the little things that he’ll miss about this day when they’re older. But all he can focus on is the way Calvin’s eyes look more beautiful with every passing day. 

“And now the exchanging of vows,” the minister says. “Marcus and Calvin have chosen to write their own.” 

Marcus pulls out a piece of paper. He has the whole speech memorized, but this is just in case he can’t keep it together. 

“Calvin, I can’t lie and say it was love at first sight. Because it was more like frustration...for a really long time.” 

He licks his lips. “But looking back, I think the most frustrating thing was how little I wanted to care about you, but did anyway. You snuck your way into my life… And maybe I can’t remember the exact moment I fell, because I’m still falling. Every single day. For your smile, and your kindness... and your thinning hairline.” 

The crowd chuckles. Kent might laugh a little too loud. But that’s ok, might as well keep it light. 

“Every single day is different with you, and I don’t think I will ever stop falling for you. I love you because you’re willing to grow and change. I love you because you’ve been your biggest advocate and critic. I love that my best friend could love me as much as I love him…”

Marcus clears his throat. He looks back at Calvin, who’s smiling with a wetness in his eyes. 

“I love that I get to wake up every morning next to this ridiculous mountain man who has the confidence to take on the world, and the humility to admit when he’s wrong. I didn’t love the kid you were at 23, but I am so deeply and madly in love with the man you grew to be. I vow to love and cherish the person you are right now, and whoever you become. I promise to be honest and compassionate with you. I promise to be your partner, and your friend. But above all, I promise that no matter what you go through, you’ll never be alone.” 

“Calvin,” the minister says. “Do you take Marcus to be your lawful wedded husband, in sickness and health, ‘til death do you part?”

“Yes,” he says. 

“Your vows, please,” the minister says. 

Calvin takes Marcus’ hands, squeezing them tight. “I wrote pages and drafts. But I knew that I wouldn’t do them justice if I didn’t give you my honest words in the moment.”

Marcus nods hesitantly, squeezing his hands back to coax him to talk. 

“The moment I met you, I didn’t know I loved you, because I wasn’t ready to admit that I’m gay,” he says. “But I knew that you were the most important person I’d ever met, and that I would spend the rest of my life making you believe that. I haven’t gotten there yet, but I vow to make every day better than the last. I promise that even if I prove how much I love you, and how you deserve the world, I will never stop reminding you. You are the best part of me because you take me for who I am and still make me do better. You believe in me like no one else ever has. I promise to protect, cherish, and care for you with every fiber of my being.”  

“Do you, Marcus, take Calvin to be your lawful wedded husband, in sickness and health, ‘til death do you part?”

“Yes,” he says as he nods rapidly. 

They exchange rings, but Marcus can’t take his eyes off Calvin. He won’t even blink for fear that he’ll close them and wake to find this has all been a crazy fever dream. He doesn’t actually hear the minister say they’re now husbands, but he sees the moment Calvin swoops into kiss him and meets him with a steady grip and harsh, fervent kiss. 

He isn’t sure if he’ll remember much about this day in years to come, but he knows he’ll remember three things: the tears in their eyes, the calluses on Calvin’s hands, and the feeling of euphoria as they kiss. 

_/.\\_ 

November 

Marcus watches it happen in slow motion. The forward tries to check Calvin against the board. His elbow slips and goes straight for Calvin’s head. He remembers how Kent described dissociating once. It’s like his mind’s in a tunnel.   

He watches the trainer try to get Calvin to respond. He watches Jeff get into a fight with the guy who hit Calvin. He watches them fight hard against the Habs, literally. He follows the paramedics out the door. When Price tries to stop him, someone tells him to back off. 

Someone gets into a cab with him to the hospital. That person gets him in the waiting room by shouting at a few nurses. He sits with that person as they hold his hand and murmur prayers. Tears roll down Marcus’ eyes, but he can’t be bothered to wipe them away. 

“I need you to say something—” he hears Kent say at some point. 

Marcus bites his lip. “Like what?”   

“Like ‘get me something to eat and drink, Kent.’”

“Yea, that then.” 

Kent squeezes his hand. His hand is callused, but softer than Calvin’s. It’s cracked, but tender, and all too wrong. It’s—  

“Breathe, ok Smithy? I need shit, three seconds breathing in? Can we do that?” 

Marcus can’t feel his lungs. Kent takes his hand and puts it on his chest. He lifts Marcus’ chin slightly so their eyes meet. Kent’s eyes are pale. So hauntingly pale. They’re frantic and wild, but his voice is calm. He takes a deep breath.

“Do you feel that?” Kent says. “Follow me, ok?” 

Marcus matches the paces of Kent’s breath. He does this until he doesn’t have to think about breathing anymore, and he’s exhausted from everything. He ends up leaning against Kent, trying to get a few minutes of sleep. 

“Thanks for coming with me,” Marcus says. “No idea what I’d do without you.” 

“It’s no big deal,” Kent says quietly. 

He feels Kent shift his head. “Actually, I know there’s someone you’d rather have here, so I made a few calls.” 

Before he has the chance to ask, he hears his dads shouting frantically. He loses control of his body as he stands up and rushes across the room into their arms. Victor clutches him tightly as Terrence rubs his back. 

“We’re here,” Terrence says softly. “You don’t have to be strong anymore.” 

He doesn’t remember Kent leaving, or the nurses coming to get him. All he remembers is how his parents and teammate kept him afloat when the love of his life couldn’t.  

_/.\\_ 

The rest of the team is forced to go back to their hotel rooms. Some of the older guys don’t give a fuck one way or the other. But the younger guys who’ve been with Smithy and West for years now are all on edge. Jeff is combing over stats, rewatching YouTube clips of the injury on a loop. Ozzy’s rocking back and forth on the bed while Perry and Carter cling to each other under the covers. Goose is in the corner, blasting music. 

This is how Kent finds them when he walks back from the hospital. He has the itch to walk across the room and put himself in Nathan’s lap until he melts against Kent’s lips. He knows Ozzy needs something to keep him busy, so Kent tosses him his knitting bag. Ozzy stares at the sweater pattern for a minute before knitting furiously. 

He stills rocking a little, but it’s more deliberate and less frantic. Kent takes that as a good sign. He grabs Jeff’s laptop and pops  _ Top Gun _ in, forcing him to stop fixating. 

Kent’s a fixer. He can’t fix himself, but he knows how to help other people. And right now, that’s the only thing stopping him from feeling like complete shit. He murmurs something to Perry and Carter about grabbing snacks and water from the lobby before marching out the door. 

He focuses on other people because he needs to keep going. West’s in the hospital, he can’t change that. If he stops for long enough, he knows he’ll end up somewhere stupid doing something self-destructive, because all he wants to do right now is hurt. He’d love nothing more than to find the deepest river and swim until his limbs give out on him. 

Kent walks past the elevators, toward the stairs. Of course this had to happen in Montreal. 

He imagines his heart being cut up into ice shards. The image of Jack’s bathroom flashes in the back of his mind. Kent throws the staircase door open. He looks over the edge, thinking three floors isn’t high enough to do any damage. 

He has an urge to get higher, but instead he goes down until he’s racing through the lobby. The piercing Quebec winds cut his face upon first contact. Kent shivers against his will. He walks toward familiar streets, moving out of muscle memory rather than free will. Years of fighting a battle he can’t win knock him over all at once. 

He can’t save anyone. He couldn’t protect West. He can’t stop Moore or Price or any of those assholes. He couldn’t save Jack...can’t even save himself. 

He wonders how long he could stay out here and freeze. His phone vibrates in his pocket. For a second he ignores it, assuming it’s Jeff or Ozzy. But then it buzzes again, forcing him to take a look. 

 

_ Zimms 3:23pm _

_ Heard about West. _

 

_ Zimms 3:25pm _

_ I’m sorry. _

 

“What are you sorry for,” he says quietly. 

Jack can’t hear him, which is alright. Jack never listens. 

Kent imagines himself throwing his phone into the road. He’s shouting, “what the fuck are you sorry for!” Then he would throw himself in front of a car. He’d end up in the hospital, he thinks. Then Jack would notice him. Maybe Jack would love him more dead than alive.

Instead, his keeps walking. 

He isn’t good enough for Jack. He isn’t good enough for the NHL. He isn’t a good enough friend.

What is he good for? What is he good for? What is he good for? 

Was he ever any good? 

 

_ Kent 6:34am _

_ Yea, me too. _

 

_/.\\_ 

Nathan watches Kent leave the room. He doesn’t look right, and no one else seems to notice. So he puts on his jacket, grabs Kent’s and follows. He hears the staircase door slam shut and decides it’s probably better to follow in case he’s going up instead of down. 

He follows Kent for blocks, wondering where the everliving fuck he thinks he’s going. Then again, Kent knows Quebec. Part of him wonders if he’s going to the Zimmermanns’ to grovel for love that they won’t give him. 

It’s almost sunrise when Kent stops in front of a park. It’s enough for Nathan to catch up, but he still waits to see what he’ll do next. Kent walks to straight to the playground, sitting at on one of the swings. 

Nathan takes the opportunity to step closer. The sun’s coming up slowly but surely. He can tell that Kent’s been crying by how red his eyes are. Kent’s shivering like crazy as he clutches his arms tightly. He takes the opportunity to get closer, draping Kent’s winter coat over his shoulder. Kent flinches like he’s been hurt. 

“Hey,” Nathan says quietly. “It’s me, you’re ok. I’m here for you.” 

Kent blinks rapidly, wiping away a tear but refusing to look at him. Nathan sits down cautiously on the swing next to him. 

“He fucking texted me,” Kent says finally. “Just now, out of the fucking blue.” 

Nathan knows better than to ask who. 

“What the fuck am I supposed to say?” 

“What do you want to say?”

Kent shakes his head. 

“Kenny—”

“Don’t, Nathan,” he says. 

“Don’t what?”

“Say shit that you’re gonna regret,” Kent says. 

He pulls his swing over so he can hug Kent tightly. 

“I love you,” he says. “I know this is the shittiest time to say that—”

Kent stares at him in disbelief “You mean it?”    

Nathan kisses his nose. “I love you. Whatever you need, I’m here.” 

He watches Kent break down into tears as he clutches him for dear life. Kent’s lips ghost over every inch of his face. He mutters ‘I missed you’ a million times or more. 

“I’m right here,” Nathan finally says. 

“Ok,” Kent says quietly. “I just...fuck, I’m a mess. We can go back to the hotel. Sorry for dragging you out here...” 

He knows that, because it’s Kent, the second they get back, he’ll put on a facade. He’ll play nice and normal so everyone else will listen when he says it’s going to be ok. But Nathan knows better. He knows how much it fucked Kent up to go back to that hospital, even after all these years. 

As they stand up, Nathan pulls him into his arms. They hold each other tightly. 

“I love you so fucking much it scares me sometimes,” Kent admits. “I just...I want you to be happy, ok? I know I’m a fucking lot. I just...you don’t have to deal with me ok?” 

Sometimes he wishes Kent would learn that his biggest enemy is himself. Nathan kisses his forehead. 

“Let’s get breakfast and then get on the plane home, ok?” he changes the subject. “Fuck Montreal.” 

Kent nods furiously, burying his head into Nathan’s chest. “Fuck Montreal.” 

_/.\\_ 

 

A few days after the accident, after the team has returned home while Marcus and his dads remain with Calvin in Montreal where he’s still fighting through some complications, Marcus decides it’s time to get his shit together and make a few calls. He calls Kent to thank him for being there and calling his parents, and to ask him to house sit for them while they’re stuck here. He calls Jeff and tells him to keep an eye on Kent, who sounds worse for wear. 

He calls Calvin’s agent and lawyer to draft up some NDA’s and a cease and desist in case someone on the hospital staff tries to make a quick buck off their grief. He calls his own agent to let her know that he might not get resigned after this, and to start poking some leads on other teams. 

Then, he makes the call to Moore that he’s been dreading. Moore picks up on the second ring. 

“Marcus, nice of you to get in touch,” he says passive aggressively. 

Marcus ignores his attitude. “Hey, Carl. Calvin’s recovering, but he’s most likely out for the rest of the season.” 

“We’ll see about that,” he says. 

“He had severe brain swelling,” Marcus argues. “They were working around the clock to get that under control. He’s still unconscious—”   

“We’ll just have to play it by ear then,” Moore says. “So when will you be returning Marcus?” 

“As soon as he’s stable and I set him up with an at home nurse, we can talk about—”

“Isn’t that someone else’s job? We all know you’re a good guy, Smith, but surely that doesn’t fall to you,” 

Marcus holds back a scream. “I’m the executor of his estate and his next of kin.” 

“That’s interesting,” Moore says. 

Marcus can hear his swivel chair creak. He can imagine the way Moore is thinking with his mouth half open and his tongue running over his teeth. It might be an attractive quirk if he had a fucking soul. 

“Tell you what,” Moore says finally. “You get your ass back here in the next forty-eight hours and I won’t leak your relationship to the press.” 

“What relationship?” 

“Marcus, don’t mistake me for a simpleton,” he says. 

“You mean the way Loddy did when he was traded? Or the way Marky was ‘accidentally’ run over by that car in the parking lot after he tried to stick up for me? Or how about how Sticks was beaten outside of that club when she tried coming out to her own fucking team?” 

Moore is quite for a moment. 

“Or do you mean how Zimmermann paid you off to draft Parson because his son couldn’t play?” 

“You have no proof of that.” 

“Don’t mistake me for your friend, Carl,” Marcus hisses. “You’ve made a lot of enemies on this team. Most of them needed a sympathetic ear.” 

Marcus licks his lips. He never wanted to make this play. “I will bury you under a mountain of your scandal. Don’t tempt me.” 

“You wouldn’t,” Moore says shakily. “What about your precious little tr—”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” he lies. 

Moore is silent for a minute. It’s the most excruciating sound Marcus has ever experienced. It’s eerie and merciless. 

“Think about it,” Marcus says. “The Aces can survive without Calvin and I for a while...But can you really afford to have your reputation raked through the shit-filled mud?” 

He hangs up before Moore can say anything. He trembles, sliding down the wall of the corridor in the ICU. He might’ve played the only leverage he’s ever had over those bastards. If it doesn’t work, or if they call his bluff—  

Moore was right, he could never sell Kent out like that. 

Marcus takes a shaky breath. They were really royally fucked. 

_/.\ _

2008 

High school has done a lot for Matt. Mostly, he got a major growth spurt and was put on the best club team in his area. There’s still a part of him that loathes hockey, and the concept of team sports in general. But his parents were right; he’s got a natural gift for hockey, and he works his ass off for it. 

When recruiters start coming to his games, he doesn’t realize it’s for him. He tells his coach just as much. 

“Well what’d you expect, Park? You’re fast, you’re tall,” he says before he takes a bite of his sandwich. “You’ve got the best shooting average in the whole damn state.” 

Parker, despite his urge to yell, “Fuck you and this sport,” sits down across from his coach. “So...what do I do?” 

“Play your ass off, shake some hands when the game’s over, and pray that one of them gives you a full ride,” he says. 

“They do that?”

“Some of them,” his coach says. “depends on how much they want you and how much funding they have.” 

He sighs, reclining back in the chair as he stares at a ceiling. “I’m going to film school,” he says like a mantra.

“Yea? And who’s gonna pay for that kid?” his coach grumbles. “No offence, but who around here can really afford to get drafted or go to a fancy school where you come out in four years with an arts degree, no job security, and debt.” 

Parker wants to argue that his family is doing just fine. But he knows that even with him being an only child and his parents’ careers going well enough that they moved closer to DC, he’s still putting a strain on their financials. So even if they might be able to afford sending him to college now, he doesn’t want them to have to worry. 

His parents bend heaven and earth for him. Never once have they told him he can’t be a director some day. The least he can do is pay his own way through college. He does what his coach told him—he plays hard and shakes a lot of hands. 

He chooses University of Minnesota because they’re a good team and offer him a full ride. They have a major that’s a glorified English major with a focus on analyzing film. It’s nothing like he wanted, and the classes make him want to poke his eyes out at least once a week. But he still tries, for his parents’ sake. 

When he makes the Dean’s List, he thinks about dropping out. He’s sick of wasting his time on pretenses that won’t matter when he’s working his ass off as a production assistant in LA. But the smile on his mother’s face and his father’s bone crushing hug convince him otherwise. 

His parents just want what’s best for him. He can put up with three more years of mundane insanity. 


	3. Winter

Rosa’s been living with Perry for a few months at this point. She doesn’t do much, except for go to the mall to spend Perry’s money and occasionally inquire about retail jobs. However, the problem isn’t that she’s acting like una mogrosa. See, if she was just being an ungrateful brat, they could deal with that. 

Perry’s well versed in Rosa tantrums. Since she was a baby, Perry’s been the number one person to bend heaven and earth for her. Maybe that’s how they got into this situation in the first place—with their baby sister deciding to leave home and stay with them indefinitely. 

When Rosa refuses to do laundry and has broken yet another plate while trying (failing miserably) to cook, that’s when Perry decides it’s time to do a little less enabling and a little more intervening. 

“So how’s the job hunt going?” they ask one day after their afternoon nap. 

They haven’t been sleeping the greatest since West got injured in Montreal, so Jeff’s made it a point to nap with them. Which is probably why Rosa looks frustrated that Jeff’s rustling through the fridge as Perry asks this. 

Rosa groans, ignoring them while she scrolls through her phone. 

“Rosa Maria,” Perry says sternly. “I asked you a question.”

“I don’t know, ok?” The job market’s fucking shit.”

“When was the last time you asked around?” 

“I don’t know, a week ago? The froyo place said they wanted someone eighteen or older,” 

“The ice crew is looking for an extra hand,” they suggest. “I could ask—”

“Pinche… Mateo seriously? Are you really going to make me get a job?”

“Do you want me to enroll you in school?”

“No,” she says. 

“Do you want to go back to mom’s—”

“No!” she screams, almost desperately. 

“Tell me what’s going on then,” they shout just as loudly. “I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong!” 

Rosa opens her mouth, and it trembles slightly. She shakes her head, heading toward the door. 

“You wouldn’t understand, Mateo,” she says in a tight voice. “You never do.”     

She slams the door shut, causing Perry to flinch. Jeff walks toward them, hugging Perry from behind as he rests his chin gently on their shoulder. Perry closes their eyes, counting backwards from ten. 

“She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” Jeff reassures them. 

Perry swallows thickly. “That’s what I’m afraid of.” 

_/.\\_ 

_ There’s an opening down middle lane and—scores! What a move by Derek Stepan!  _

_/.\\_ 

Moore calls Kent into his office two days before New Year’s Eve. Kent has some idea of why he’s getting sent here again, but the answer is still no. The man at least has the decency to look like shit. It’s almost like trying to shake up his team when his captain’s recovering from a major concussion was a bad idea. 

“Kent,” Moore says. “There comes a time in every man’s life where—”

Kent yawns. “Really? That’s the best you got? Some watered down with great power comes great responsibility bullshit?”   

Moore scowls. “Fine, let’s cut to the chase shall we? West is out indefinitely.” 

Kent nods as he whips out his phone. 

 

_ Kent 2:31pm  _

_ I’m doing it _

 

“Smith is as good as gone by the end of the season. Having Troy as the sole A isn’t cutting it.”

Kent hums. He hears Moore growl. 

“Are you even listening to me?” 

“Yep,” he says.

 

_ Carter 2:32pm  _

_ It’s your funeral. But ok.  _

 

Kent shoves him phone in his pocket as he smirks at Moore. 

“Alright, so you want my blessing to make Carter an A? Cool.” 

Moore’s scowl turns into a sneer. “I’m not here to play games, Parson.” 

“Neither am I,” Kent says firmly. “You and Price have been fucking with our lines for weeks. I’m Jeff’s best winger. You’re not putting us on different lines.” 

“You’re being obtuse,” he says. 

“And you’re being naive if you think we’ve got a rat’s chance in hell of getting to the playoffs with all this fucking last-minute maneuvering.” 

“Kent,” Moore says with a tight smile. “You’re not in a position to bargain here. Not when two calls will get your little… secret exposed to the world.” 

Kent bares his teeth. “Nice bluff.” 

Moore slams his hands onto the desk, shooting up from his desk. His face is beet red. 

“Listen to me you pussy-ass  _ bitch _ . The only reason you’ve set foot on NHL ice is because of Bad Bob and his coked up son. For some godforsaken reason you’re our highest points earner. You  _ will _ take the A and you’ll put a fucking smile on your face or I swear to—”

Kent slams his hands on the desk, putting his face right in Moore’s as he shouts. 

“No, you listen to me, you sick son of a bitch. You’re giving Carter Harris the position he deserves or I’m leaking every fucking scandal this team has ever had to every news outlet in the fucking country.” He spits in Moore’s face. “Dont. Fucking. Tempt. Me. You piece of shit. You think you own me? You think you’re anything more than a glorified desk jockey twenty years past his usefulness? You’re not even worth the scum on the bottom of my shoe.”   

Moore balks, backing up slowly. Kent’s anger doesn’t waver. 

“You come after me like this again, and I will  _ bury _ you.” 

_/.\\_ 

_ Steve Tyrell cuts in front and—oh! Move! It’s two to two here in Tampa!    _

_/.\\_ 

Carter’s been poring over Jeff’s playbook for the last few days. Part of him was really hoping that Kent wouldn’t gamble his career away just to make him assistant captain. But he’s also weirdly glad that Kent believes in him enough that he moved heaven and earth to make sure he could be. 

Now it’s a matter of proving his good faith right. Which is… unfortunately harder than he thought it would be. There are so many pages to look at. Plus there are plays to memorize, deconstruct, re-analyze, test out modifications for in practice—  

Carter scrubs his face. He gasps for air, but he can’t breathe well enough. 

“Carter,” Ozzy’s voice says. “What’s wrong?”

He feels his shoulder’s being squeezed, but he’s lightheaded and trembling. He hates this. He hates feeling weak and vulnerable. 

“Fuck, I’m gonna get help ok? I’ll be right back,” Ozzy says. 

Carter doesn’t pay him a lot of attention. He tries to breathe, but he can’t. He can’t breathe. He can’t read a playbook. He can’t help Smithy and West when they need it the most. He can’t handle—  

“Carter, hey I got you,” Kent says. “We’re in the living room, ok? You’re safe, we’re all ok. Can you hear me?” 

“Yea,” he says weakly. 

“Can we do a grounding exercise or should we focus on your breathing?” 

“Breathing,” he feels something wet in his eyes. “Kenny I can’t—”

“Hey I’m right here.” Kent puts Carter’s hand on his chest. “In five counts, ok? One, two, that’s it, three, four, and five. Hold it for six, ok? Just listen to my voice.” 

Carter follows Kent’s voice, closing his eyes and shuddering. Kent keeps him going for a while until Carter can breathe on his own. When he gets to that point, he wraps his arms around Kent, pulling him into a tight hug.

“Jesus, shit I’m sorry, man,” Carter says. 

“Fuck, it’s ok,” Kent says as he rubs his back. “Don’t apologize.”

Carter hears some murmuring between Kent and Ozzy. 

“Dude, fuck the A, ok?” Kent says eventually. “If you need help, that’s what we’re here for. You don’t have to do it alone.” 

He closes his eyes again as Kent squeezes him tighter. 

“Wanna blow off game prep and watch TV instead?” Kent asks. 

Carter snorts, nodding. He ends up squished between Ozzy and Kent on the couch with some of the other guys filtering in and out between episodes of  _ Family Matters _ . 

“You’re way more important to me than this fucking game,” Kent says at one point. “Don’t forget that.” 

Ozzy slings his arm around Carter’s shoulder as Perry leans over to squeeze his knee. Carter takes a deep breath, letting the tension melt out of his body. It’ll be ok, he thinks. They’re family after all. They’ll be there to catch him if he falls.  

_/.\\_ 

_ Here’s Toews going around front and he scores! The score is tied at one here in the first period. _

_/.\\_ 

Kent’s dreaming. He has to be, because he’s traipsing through his billet home back in Rimouski. He turns around, and Perry’s asking him when they’re going to leave. He says wait a minute, he’s missing something. He climbs the stairs to his room. Only the house shifts as he approaches the door. 

Suddenly, it’s Jack’s front door. It’s Jack’s room that he’s opening. He doesn’t want to do this, not now, not today, not ever again. Yet he knows he’ll hate himself more if he doesn’t try. The door of Jack’s bathroom is shut tight. He opens it. Jack’s lifeless eyes are staring back at him. He’s too late. Jack’s gone. 

Except a voice behind startles the fuck out of him. 

“What are you doing?” 

Kent turns around; Jack’s sitting cross legged on his bed, staring blankly. 

“You’re dead,” he murmurs in fear. “This isn’t real. You’re dead.” 

“I’m right here, Kenny,” Jack says. 

“No you’re not,” he insists. 

Jack tilts his head curiously. Kent takes that to mean “what are you going to do?” 

“I’m sorry,” he admits. “This is all my fault.” 

“What’s your fault?”

“Everything,” he says. “You being an A instead of a C. Everyone talking shit about whether you should be first or second. You’re mom taking that movie because she thought you were ok. Your dad chirping us. Your overdose. Fuck, Zimms, I’m sorry. You should’ve been able to talk to me. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m s—”   Kent gulps. “I love you, ok? I’ll get you out of this shithole. We’ll be ok, ok?” 

“I don’t believe you,” Jack says, crossing his arms indignantly. 

“What do I gotta do, babe? Anything, I just—need you to be happy.” 

Jack frowns, because of course Kent should already know the answer. Kent does, of course he does. Jack won’t stop staring at him like he’s a piece of meat ready to be devoured.  If that’s what he wants, Kent would be stupid not to give it to him—it, himself, every fiber of his being until he’s everything Jack wishes he could be. 

He approaches the bed slowly. He sits in Jack’s lap so he can grasp Kent’s hips tightly. Jack kisses him like he’s trying to kill his tongue. Kent goes along with it like he always does. He shakes. It’s just a kiss, right? It’s nothing. He’s just apologizing. This is nothing. Nothing like—   

It’s really nothing.   

Kent feels the ground slip out from under him. 

He jerks awake. He sits up, looking around. He’s in Vegas. He’s not in Montreal. He’s ok. 

He checks his phone. It reads 3 am. He sighs; it’s too early to pretend he went on a morning run. But there’s no fucking way he can fall asleep by himself. He gets up, padding softly out of his room to the one across the hall. He opens the door quietly, careful not to let it creak as he closes it. He shuffles into the far side of the bed, sliding under the covers. 

He scoots closer to the middle, wrapping an arm around Jeff from behind. He presses his nose into the fabric of Jeff’s t-shirt, trying to inhale the smell of deodorant, peppermint, and the tiniest bit of sweat. It’s Jeff, and he’s real. He’s safe and he’s there, and Kent hasn’t done anything to fuck that up yet. 

He falls asleep with his face crusty from dried tears.  

In the morning, he wakes up to Jeff shifting his position. Now his head is resting on pillow with his nose dangerously close to Jeff’s armpit. Not that he minds. He looks up, noticing the hopeless expression in Jeff’s eyes. 

“Wanna talk about it?”

“No fucking way,” Kent says. 

Jeff hugs him a little tighter. Kent tries to ignore the way his vision blurs and voice cracks. It was just a dream right? There’s no point in dwelling on it. 

He doesn’t fuck up like that. Not anymore. 

_/.\\_ 

Matt’s agent calls him the morning after Thanksgiving finals with an offer he can’t refuse. A two-year contract with the Las Vegas Aces. 

“You’ve gotta be shitting me,” he says. 

“Nope, they wanted to sign you at the end of the season but they’re short staffed right now,” his agent, Donna, says. “Granted, they’ll probably ship your ass to their farm team in Reno—”

“Perfect,” Matt says. “I’ll do it.”

“Alright, no use giving you a hard sell. We can sign tomorrow when you get back into town,” she says.    

He finishes out the semester because his parents insist. Really, two-thirds of everything he’s done in the last eight years has been for them. So when his mom asks, “Are you sure?” he nods. 

“They’ll pay me more in two years than I’d get in five with a desk job.” 

“And then what?” she asks. “You need a plan, Matthew.” 

He shrugs. “Then I’ll move to LA, start my film career with enough in my savings.” 

His mom looks at him like he’s grown a second head, but his dad hugs him warmly. 

“If that’s your dream, do it,” his dad says. 

His parents help him pack up his old Corolla the day after New Year’s and send him on his way. He takes the southernmost route from Virginia to Nevada. 

Lilah calls him sometime after Flagstaff. 

“Hey, Mr. Hotshot, you rolled into your kingdom yet?” 

Matt laughs. “Fuck off, this isn’t like that.” 

“Keep telling yourself that,” she says. “How far away are you?”

“Think it’s two hours. I’ll let you know when I get closer.” 

“You do that.” He images her graceful smile. “Let me know which teammate you’re gonna fall for, alright?” 

He groans. “No one,  _ ever _ . They’re pretentious white pricks.” 

“Isn’t this the team with Dawn Harris’ son? Wasn’t he just named assistant captain? Or what about those tall brown d-men?” 

“Your point?” 

“You have a type,” she says playfully. 

Matt’s thankful she doesn’t get the satisfaction of seeing him blush right now. 

“I hate you sometimes,” he says. 

“That’s because you know I’m right.” 

He hears her typing away on her laptop. 

“Homework already?” he asks. “Aren’t you on break?”

“Winter quarter,” Lilah says. “The rents are in Germany right now.” 

“Sure, that cute RA has nothing to do with it,” Matt says skeptically.  

“Parker—” 

“Just ask her out, for fuck’s sake,” he says. “She’ll say yes.” 

“I hate you sometimes,” she says. 

“Sounds like a personal problem,” he chirps. 

“Whatever,” she says playfully. “I’m here looking out for your love life and this is how you repay me?” 

“I’ll be fine, I promise.”

“I worry, ok? You’re a big old softy stuck in a giant’s body.” 

He laughs. “I’ll pay for you to visit, how’s that?” 

“Better… not as good as you getting signed by the Kings. But I’ll be patient.”  

Matt sighs. “I’m not—hockey’s a pit stop, ok? I’ll get to LA before you know it.” 

“Good,” she says. “I miss my best friend.” 

“Me too,” he says before she lets him hang up. 

He takes a deep breath as he parks in front of the house the front office told him he’ll be staying in for a while. Vegas isn’t a vacation, it isn’t a place worth living in, and it certainly isn’t a career.  It’s a necessary detour if Matt ever wants to get where he’s going. 

He’s five hours from LA, but it’s going to take a fulfilled NHL contract to get there. He looks at his clock radio before shutting it off. It’s going to be a long two years.    

_/.\\_ 

_ Chopra cuts in front of Perrault, and score! What a move by Perrault! _

_/.\\_ 

“She’s impossible,” Perry tells Adam one evening over the phone. 

They’re both supposed to be asleep at this point—Perry because they have a game the next day and Adam because his mother will chastise him in the morning when he’s too exhausted to drive his little sister to school. Perry’s sitting in the living room of Jeff’s house. It’s more private than anywhere in their house with Rosa around. She’s an incorrigible eavesdropper.  

“So kick her out,” Adam says. 

“Adam—”

“Per, relax,” Adam says. “I know you’d never do that to her. It’s one of the reasons why I love you.” 

Perry blushes deeply before sighing. “I don’t know what to do with her.” 

“You gotta have patience, babe,” he says. “She’s a brat, but she’s also fucking smart as shit.” 

“You’ve met her once,” they point out. 

“And she was the smartest twelve-year-old I’ve ever met! She’s gotta have a plan.”

Perry smiles sadly. “How can you have more faith in her than I do?”

“Well, for one, I haven’t been cleaning up her shit for like four months now,” Adam says. “But… she’s your sister, Per. She has to be fucking awesome. Just like you.” 

Perry clears their throat awkwardly. It’s on days like this that they miss having Adam around in real life. They haven’t been in the same room together in a little over a year at this point. 

“Sometimes I’m scared of forgetting what you look like,” Perry admits out loud. 

Adam chuckles sadly. “Maybe I’ll start sending you selfies of me doing dumb shit. How about that?” 

“Sounds… less terrible,” they admit.

“Good, but you gotta do me a favor first.” 

“What?” 

“Think about college,” Adam says. 

Perry takes a deep breath. “We’ve been over this—”

“I know, I know,” he says with a long suffering sigh. “It’s just, four  _ years _ ? That’s fucking forever. Fuck, the last five years have been unfairly long.” 

“I know,” they say. “It’s hard on me too.” 

“Can’t you think about it? Just a little more?” 

Perry bites their lip, looking down at the brochure for Samwell University. 

“I couldn’t play out there,” they argue. “I couldn’t go back to the NHL once we’re done.” 

Adam doesn’t say anything. Because he knows that there’s no amount of sappy words or sweet sentiments that will change their reality. 

“I’m sorry, amor,” Perry says quietly. “My family needs the money.  _ We _ need the money. You know that.” 

They hear Adam breathing heavily. Maybe it isn’t always apparent to Adam how much they love him. But it’s always on Perry’s mind. They’re thinking about his future just as much as their family’s. They can’t juggle everyone at once, and, well, some days it feels like Adam gets left behind the most. 

“Hey, Perry, it’s ok,” Adam says as if reading their mind. “I meant it, ok? Whatever it takes, we’re gonna figure this out. You have my word.” 

Perry nods, wiping something away from their eyes. Adam would wait forever for them. As always, Perry wonders if it’s worth it. If only they had the conviction to let Adam move on with his life once and for all—miles away from the strain of hockey has on both their lives.         

_/.\\_ 

_ Here comes Callahan with a one on one, he spins around on his back and, oh, fires a shot! Scores! And for the second time this game, the Rangers score short handed. _

_/.\\_ 

The Aces are, for the most part, the shit pile of toxic white masculinity Matt expected them to be. Price is full of shit and doesn’t know what he’s doing more often than not. The A’s are… something. Carter’s competent and friendly. But Jeff fucking Troy gets off acting like team dad when he can barely keep possession of the puck. 

“I thought this was supposed to be a pro team,” Matt says under his breath one day at practice. They’ve been trying to force him on a line with Troy and Parson for the last week. Sometimes it works decently during power plays. But other than that, Matt doesn’t see a point in trying. He’s two bad games away from playing in Reno for good. Then he just has to coast by until his contract is up. 

He and Parson butt heads every now and then. The guy’s an ass, but he knows how to chirp and take checks. Not like some of the assholes on his old team who expected him to be their bruiser but never had his back in plays. 

“Keep your head out of your ass, Park,” Parson says one afternoon after practice. 

“Only if you’re offering to take its place, Parson,” he chirps in response. 

He expects Parson to go all straight guy “no homo” on him. Instead he smirks like a fucking kid at a candy store. 

“Maybe if you learn to pass, I’ll let you take  _ my  _ ass for spin,” he says with a wink. 

Matt glares. So this is how he’s going to play it? Alright then. 

“What makes you think your ass can handle me?” 

“You’d be surprised how much I can take,” Parson says, licking his lips. 

“Huh, that’s funny coming from a porcelain doll like you.”  

“Sex doll, maybe,” Parson says, wrinkling his nose. “But I am an expensive—”

“Kent,” Goose says softly. 

For some reason, that tames Parson. He bumps Matt’s shoulder like it’s all in good fun. 

“Remember to fucking pass, alright?” Parson says. 

Matt shrugs. He doesn’t make promises he can’t keep.     

_/.\\_

“Bueno, Mami?” Ozzy says as he picks up a call on his phone one Saturday night in late January. 

They just lost to Nashville, but aren’t done with their roadie yet. He’s not exactly in the best mood to talk right now, let alone with his mom. 

“Hola mijito,” she says cheerfully. “Cómo estás mi lindo bebé? Estás comiendo suficiente?” 

“Mamá,” Ozzy whines. “No soy tan joven.” 

“Disculpeme, carino” she says. “Solo quiero preguntar si los gringos están comportando bien con mi Oso.” 

“Son gringos en un juego professionale para gringos,” he says dryly. “Es violenta y la mayoría del público son más blanco que el hielo. No tienen demasiado espacia para demostrar la madurez.” 

“Ay suenas como su amigo, que se llama? Carter?” 

Ozzy blushes beet red. “Y?” 

“Cada cosa no debe ser una tema política,” she says quietly. “Deben  _ relajarse _ un poquito.” 

“Te acabadas de decir que no confías en los gringos,” he argues. 

“No pongas palabras en mi boca, solamente pregunta por tu dieta,” she says.  

“It’s fine. I’m eating enough. That’s what I have a nutritionist for,” he says curtly. 

“Hablas en español porfa,” she asks. “Vas a perder su idioma primera sin práctica.”

“Que se importa? Ser bilingüe es una tema política,” he says.     

His mom sighs. He hears men shouting ‘Cerote’ in the background of the call. 

“Quieres hablar con sus hermanos?” 

“No thanks, tell them I say hi,” Ozzy says.  

“Osiel—”

“Te quiero muchisimo, Mami. Voy a llamaran el miércoles después de nuestro viaje, te prometo.” 

He hangs up without letting her respond. Ozzy shouts as he falls head first into his hotel bed, screaming as he buries his head in one of the pillows. He feels the bed dip next to him. He doesn’t give his room key to just anyone, so he reluctantly turns over. Carter’s lying next to him, staring calmly at the ceiling. 

“Hey,” Ozzy says quietly. 

Carter shifts his gaze over to him, inspecting him carefully. Carter doesn’t make Ozzy give him eye contact. But there’s something about the timbre of Carter’s voice, the gentleness in almost everything he does (well, almost everything outside of hockey) that makes it easier. Not to look, but to be comfortable letting his eyes drift away from the typical bridge of the nose or just past the ears trick. If he can’t make eye contact, Carter won’t give him shit for it. He’s different than the people Ozzy grew up with. He’s better. 

“Hi,” Carter says finally. “Wanna talk?” 

“About my mom? No thanks,” he says honestly. 

Carter hums, nodding reassuringly. “If you ever change your mind, you know I’m here for you, right?” 

Ozzy feels his lips twitch slightly. When Carter scoots closer, close enough that their foreheads touch and nothing else, Ozzy sighs contently. Carter listens to him, better than anyone else. He closes his eyes. One of his hands finds Carter’s, lacing them together. 

“My family’s… stupid as fuck,” Ozzy says bluntly. 

Carter chuckles against his lips. It makes it harder to kiss him. Not that it matters. It wouldn’t be the first time that they were interrupted by their own laughing. They bring out the best in each other. 

“If you really want to know, I’ll tell you,” Ozzy says. 

Carter kisses him softly. “Nah, if it makes you uncomfortable—” 

“I wish they weren’t so fucking dense, but they’re not bad people. I don’t like thinking about things that annoy me. Like how shitty movie adaptations of video games are. It’s stupid. It makes me angry. Why bother?” 

“You love them… but they disappoint you a lot and that hurts. Am I right?” 

“Stupidly brilliant as always,” he mutters. 

“That’s contradictory,” Carter says.

“It’s an oxymoron,” he argues. “Meaning you’re so fucking brilliant, it’s stupid that you like me.” 

Carter squeezes his hand. “Can I hug you?” 

Ozzy nods slowly, keeping his eyes closed. He trembles a little as Carter wraps him up in a hug. 

“You really think it’s stupid that I want you?” 

“No, I just hate how fucking sex repulsed I am,” he admits before he loses his nerve. “Feels like I’m keeping you from something better.” 

“I went out last night, and it’s not all about sex for me,” Carter whispers. “Trust me, ok? I want to be here. I love you.” 

Ozzy kisses him deeply, inhaling deeply as Carter slips a hand into Ozzy’s thick black hair. What they have isn’t twisted with anxiety or limp with hollow pleasantries. They’re as easy as falling asleep in the sun, as easy as breathing. Carter makes Ozzy smile for just about anything. He makes Ozzy’s heart race and his cheeks flush. He thought that only happened in movies. 

“I love you too,” Ozzy murmurs. 

“I know,” Carter says. “But it’s good to hear out loud every once in a while.” 

“I love you,” he says again. “I love you. I love you, Carter Harris.” 

Carter kisses him again, and again. Ozzy doesn’t say it much, not with words at least. He says it in subtle touches, pregame rituals, and post game cuddles. He says it when Carter can’t find his keys and Ozzy softly reminds him where he dropped them the night before. He says it every time he throws off his schedule to help Carter out, and even more when he schedules a big chunk of his evenings just for Carter. Other people can be around, but Carter’s what matters most. 

They say it to each other in smiles across the locker room and subtle gestures on the ice. They say it in cellies. Ozzy would do anything if it meant more time with Carter—on the ice, off the ice, and everything in between.   

_/.\\_ 

_ Giving it away is Weiss in front of the net… and oh! Right through the legs! Devils up two to zero here in the third period.  _

_/.\\_ 

Nathan takes twenty milligrams of Prozac every morning with breakfast. Kenny makes breakfast most mornings because making it makes him feel like he deserves to eat some. Kenny eats his breakfast as calmly as possible, and he puts Nathan’s pills on his plate so he can swallow them with food. This arrangement is partially because Nathan hates swallowing pills with liquids. It’s also because it took a month for Nathan to realize that Kent was secretly counting his pills every morning and every night. It took one of their longest arguments to date to reach a compromise they were both happy with, but they found it. Kent gets to watch Nathan take his pills and Nathan gets to watch Kent feed himself. 

The routine is good for both of them. It gives them a sense of stability, reminding them when they’d rather go out for the night that they morning will still come. That they can drown their sorrows in booze and whatever Bruno’s been getting from his drug dealer, but they’ll still have to wake up in the morning. Grinding their lives to a halt for a few bad mistakes isn’t worth it. If a day goes shitty, then they can sleep it off early. If a game tanks (which has been happening a lot lately) they can watch tape with their housemates for a few hours, but that’s it.

Kent’s gotten good at being the person to say when enough’s enough. He refuses to let anyone fixate too much on what they did wrong. 

“There’s learning from our mistakes and then there’s bashing our heads in with them,” Kent says one night. 

Kent rallies the guys when he’s on the bench and they’re behind. He tells the assholes to knock off the homophobic and misogynistic shit. When Asher chirps him for acting like a mom, Kent gives him an unimpressed glare. 

“You wish your mom looked this good,” he tells Asher. 

In a lot of ways, Smithy and West’s absence is a gaping wound in the team. They weren’t just leaders, they were family. Kent bends and twists to fill every crack they have. The Aces may be struggling to stay in the top of their division, but Kent’s leading the league in points scoring. The more the team tries to crumble underneath its own weight, the more Kent puts on a brave face. 

Kent wants so much to be everyone’s savior that he doesn’t realize he could use some saving of his own. The dark circles under his eyes aren’t visible with the waterproof concealer he’s taken to wearing. He wakes up early at least once a week to check in with Smithy. 

He doesn’t say the whole story, but he finally starts to open up about why he is the way he is. He never says Jack’s name. He doesn’t have to; the damage is as clear as the maple leaf tattoo on his right shoulder. 

Kenny makes sure Perry’s staying sane with Rosa’s around, and makes sure Rosa knows she’s welcome in their house too. Kenny has a back-up pair of Ozzy’s noise-reducing earplugs with him at all times, and an extra water bottle in case Carter needs a breather. He nudges Jeff’s shoulder during practice when Jeff forgets that he’s a fucking leader now and it’s okay to assert himself. He chirps the shit out of the other guys on the team, but makes sure they know he’s always got their backs. He watches every Prozac Nathan takes. Kenny kisses him every morning afterward, as if it were the most amazing thing he’s ever seen; someone not abusing the medication that helps them function. 

Kenny takes care of the team, and Nathan watches on silently, making sure he eats. 

_/.\\_ 

_ Little shake and bake by Patrice Bergeron, giving the Aces a run for their money. _

_/.\\_ 

Perry’s been rehearsing a speech for days. Rosa’s barely left her room, let alone the house, for the better part of a week. Perry loves her with all their heart. But they can’t be responsible for their career, their friends’ mental health, and their sister’s entire life. At some point, things have to start giving. 

It seems like a better day for Rosa, who’s in the living room watching home repair shows while taking notes. Perry sits down next to her, clasping their hands in their lap. 

“So,” Perry says after a minute of silence. 

“So… are you going to sit there all day or lecture me?”

“I don’t want to lecture you,” Perry says. 

Rosa hums. “Seems like it.” 

“I think we should talk about what you’re doing here, and how I can help.” 

Rosa smiles bitterly. She shakes her head. 

“I’m serious, Rosa,” they say. “Something’s clearly up—”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it, Mateo,” she says. 

Perry grunts. “Stop calling me that.” 

“It’s your name, isn’t it?” 

“I go by Perry,” they say. “You’re living under my roof, the least you could do is call me that.” 

“Why, are you some sort of freak now on top of a _ mariposa _ ,” she grumbles. 

Perry hits the pillow next to them. “What is your fucking problem!” 

“Why do you have to stick your fucking hands where they don’t belong?” she shouts. 

“You’re in my fucking house, Rosa. You ran away from home. Clearly, this is my fucking business.” 

She scowls before standing up. “Fine, I’m going—”

“Just tell me what mami did that was so fucking bad—”

“I’m gay!” Rosa screams. 

Perry’s eyes go wide. 

“I-I figured it out a while ago ok?” she says as she wraps her arms around herself. “I tried telling Mami—”

Perry gets up to hug her tightly. Rosa stiffens, dissolving into sobs. They shush her gently. Perry bites their lip harshly. 

“Did she touch you?” Perry asks quietly. 

Rosa looks up at them like they’ve grow a second head. “What?” 

“Did. She. Touch. You,” they repeat sternly. 

“I…” Rosa shakes her head. “She tried to throw a vase at me, but I got out of the way.” 

Perry flinches. Before realizing “—you left Teresa alone with her? Are you fucking—”

“Of course I didn’t,” Rosa hisses, gripping Perry tightly. “She’s with Nadia. I wouldn’t… shit she was scary Ma—Perry.” 

They hug each other tighter. Perry buries their face in her hair. Eventually, they get a grip. 

“You need to talk to Nadia,” Perry says. “About Mami, your parents,  _ everything _ .” 

“What’s there to talk about?” 

Perry shakes their head. “You don’t know why he left. You don’t even know the half of it.”           

_/.\\_ 

Perry calls Nadia later that night when Kent and Carter have taken her off their hands for a while. “Yea, can you check on Mami? See if she’s…”

“If she’s what?” Nadia says. 

“Sober.” 

They hear Nadia shudder. “Ok, I’ll go check on la punta.” 

“Thank you,” they whisper. 

“If she’s off the wagon, I’m sending her straight to rehab, ok?” 

“Ok,” Perry agrees. 

“Y ni siquiera what happens to her after that, got it? I’m done with her,” she says angrily. 

“Nadia—”

“I told you last time. I won’t have her near you, Mags, or mis bebés.” 

“I know,” Perry says. 

“...I’ll start paying you back for paying off my student loans once I’m finished paying you back for my house,” she says. 

Perry sighs. They’ve had this conversation so many times. “Nadia, seriously? Just take the house. It’s the least I could do for you.” 

“Fine… only because I love you.” 

“Thanks,” they say dryly. 

“Hey, I love you, mi rey,” Nadia says. “You’re a good kid.” 

Perry feels a warmth they wish they had when their mother says she’s proud of them. Maybe it’s because of how much Nadia’s done for them over the years. She’s right. At the end of the day, she’s more a parent than their parents could ever be. 

_/.\\_ 

1997

“Get out!” Nadia screams at their mother’s boyfriend. 

Magdalena is locked in the bedroom with Rosa. Their mother is who knows where, and Mateo is hiding in the cupboards with 911 ready in case things get out of hand. Nadia has the butcher knife from the kitchen in her hands, pointing determinately toward their mother’s boyfriend. 

“Nadia, put that—”

“I swear to God if you take a step closer I’ll put this fucking knife through your fat fucking head!” she screams. 

“Be reasonable,” he begs. 

“You almost killed Rosa! You’re too drunk and stupid to be here. Get out, now.” 

“You can’t talk to me like this! I’m the head of the house!” 

“Shut up! We live penny to penny and your fucking unemployment that’s running out because you’re too drunk to get a real job! I’m working three jobs to make ends meet for us—”   

Mateo closes his eyes as he presses the call button. 

“Hello, 911 what’s your emergency?” 

He recites his address as clearly as possible. 

“Ok, what’s your emergency, sweetie?” the operator says slowly, volume matching his. 

Mateo hangs up the phone.    

“I didn’t mean to—” his mother’s boyfriend says, his words slurring.   

“You useless piece of shit,” Nadia growls. “I should’ve kicked you out the day she brought you home—” 

“And then what,  _ princessa _ ? You couldn’t handle your fucking bastards without me—”

“I wouldn’t  _ have _ them if it weren’t for you!” 

Mateo hears some clanking. He hears something heavy smack into a wall before hearing the man cry out in pain. He hears police sirens in the distance. 

“They’ll never let you keep them,” his mother’s boyfriend shouts. “You think—”   
He hears Nadia cry out in pain. There’s a banging on the door not a minute later. 

“Officer, this man is harassing my family,” she says. 

“She’s lying—”

“I won’t press charges, just please remove him from my home immediately,” Nadia says firmly. 

Mateo hears something about documentation, which makes him shiver as Nadia talks with a steady voice. Eventually the cops leave, giving her a few numbers to call. She knocks four times on the bedroom door first. He hears her console a sobbing Magdalena before shushing Rosa in her crib. 

Mateo’s too scared to move. He wants to get out, but every fiber of his being is screaming at him to stay put. Just in case he comes back; just in case they need another call. Nadia finds him a few minutes later. 

“There’s my brave little man,” she says as she gently pulls him out of the cupboard. 

She hugs him tightly. In spite of himself and his desire to be brave, Mateo bursts into tears. He buries his head in her pregnant belly. 

“Hey, I got you,” she whispers.        

The next day, Nadia puts a note on the fridge, packs three big suitcases full of clothing, and piles the four of them into her car. They drive from Jacksonville, Florida, straight west. They make a few rest stops, but they sleep in the car and keep going until they reach Texas. 

Nadia gets them to their Abuela’s house before breaking down from exhaustion. She still puts a smile on her face for Abuela. She gets them a place to live.

When Teresa is born, Nadia only puts her name on the certificate. Magdalena asks why, but Mateo knows better than to wonder. 

A year later, their mother, Dolores, shows up sober and somber. Mateo watches the way Nadia protects them from Dolores until she trusts her again. He watches Nadia allow her daughters to be raised by her mother, as if she’s more qualified to be around babies than Nadia. 

Mateo wonders if this is what parenthood is supposed to be like—a person setting theirself on fire to make sure their children stay warm. Nadia makes him and Magdalena promise never to tell Rosa and Teresa the truth. 

They get to have a normal life, with a moderately put together family. Mateo isn’t jealous of them… most of the time at least.   

_/.\\_ 

_ Here’s a break away pass with Bobby Ryan… in again! Scores again! That’s two zero for Anaheim!  _

_/.\\_ 

2012

Things with the Aces have gotten marginally easier. At least now they’re keeping him on a consistent line. Matt didn’t, however, account for Parson being a fucking psychopath. 

Parson charges into the locker room one day as they’re suiting up for a game. He’s already in his gear for some reason. 

“Park, follow me,” he says. 

Park snorts, leaning back casually. “You got a problem with me,  _ Parsnip _ ?” 

Parson walks straight up to him, getting in his face. “Get your fucking ass outside, now.” 

He watches Parson leave without a single glance back. Ozzy claps his shoulder lightly. 

“Better do what he says,” Ozzy advises. “It’s easier that way.” 

“Why? He’s such a fucking bitch—” 

The sound of a bathroom stall slamming interrupts him. Troy storms out in underwear looking like a red tomato. 

“Don’t ever call him that again,” Troy says. 

Matt takes a long heaving sigh, reluctantly getting up to find wherever the fuck Parson went. He finds Parson outside the locker room, arms crossed as he glares at the floor. 

“What’s your fucking deal?” Parson says quietly. “You can break school records, but you can’t pass to your fucking lineys?” 

Matt shrugs. “What can I say? I’m not a prodigy like you. Maybe they should knock me down to Reno.” 

Parson’s head whips up instantly, and he glares at Matt. It’s not a look of rage, but concern. What the fuck is wrong with this guy? He goes from zero to sixty in two seconds.

“Really? You’re gonna give up an opportunity that loads of guys would  _ kill _ for—”   

“I never asked for this bullshit,” Matt snaps. “Don’t you fucking pretend you know me.” 

Parson presses his lips into a thin line, and then cracks his neck. Matt rolls his eyes. 

“You want to throw away your one shot in the NHL? Fine, I don’t give a flying fuck,” Parson says. “But the next time you treat my teammates, my  _ family _ , like trash, or worse, get someone hurt, you won’t have to worry about going to Reno. I’ll kick your ass there myself.” 

“Wow, big words from an uneducated pipsqueak,” Matt chirps. 

Parson snorts. “You wanna play that game, college boy? Fine, Jeff, Nathan, Perry, Ozzy, and Carter are fucking off limits. I don’t give a flying shit what you do with other players on your own time.” 

He doesn’t get what Parson’s angle is, but he hates being told what to do by a self-important white boy. Parson might be short and fast, but he’s no better than the rest of them. Matt thinks about chirping the shit out of him, but Parson leaves without another word. 

He ignores Parson’s words during the game. He plays the same game as he always has, moving around the idiots he can and bulldozing the ones he can’t. 

The Aces losing three to one. Matt expects some grumbling and snide comments in the locker room. He doesn’t expect Parson to literally sit there glaring at Matt well past the time everyone’s left. He’s still in the locker room when Matt gets out of the shower.

“What? Got some more threats your royal highness?” 

“You’re fucking impossible,” Parson says. “You’re selfish and reckless. We could’ve had that game. It was fucking Dallas!” 

“Not my fault your precious center can’t keep up,” 

Parson’s growl turns into a muffled scream as he buries his head in his hands. 

“That hip check you just had to give Grossman? He barrelled into Jeff. You’re supposed to have your teammates’ backs, not try to fucking break them.” 

“What do you care? He’s your competition,” Matt says. 

“You’re so fucking dense. This isn’t some playground turf war, it’s our goddamn  _ job _ .” 

“Sounds like a personal problem,” he says. 

Parson stands, crossing the room. He all but pushes Matt into the wall. He’s small but… strong.

“Shape up or get the fuck out. I can’t deal with you hurting us, Jack—”

Matt gapes. “What?”  

Parson goes stark white. Parson looks at him like he’s a burn victim. Next thing he knows, Parson’s running out of the room. He stares at the door for a while, wondering what that was all about. 


	4. Spring

Predictably, Matt doesn’t have friends on the goddamn Aces. Ozzy and Perry make attempts to include him in things, but their idea of a good time is watching Spanish soap operas. It’s a rare off day, so he decides to make the most of it and pull out his DSLR camera. He hasn’t used it since he moved to Vegas, partially because he doesn’t have a second of free time. But there’s also the issue of having nothing around the goddamn city worth filming. He decides to head out anyway, see if maybe playing tourist will get him some interesting footage. 

He shouts that he’s going out, doubting anyone cares if they even hear him. 

“Hold on,” Parson shouts from somewhere behind him. “I’ll come with.” 

Matt rolls his eyes. “Who invited you?” 

“You,” Parson says. “Just now.” 

“You don’t know where I’m going.” 

“So? All the better, no way that you can disappoint me,” Parson says. 

He sneers. “No.” 

Parson waggles his eyebrows playfully. “C’mon, you know you want some company.” 

“Yea, from the most obnoxious guy on the team,” Matt chirps. 

Parson claps his back, ushering them toward the front door. “My thoughts exactly, we don’t know fucking shit about each other, Park. ‘Ts time to fix that.” 

“Or we could hate each other and not talk about it,” he says. 

Parson snickers, “C’mon, enough chit chat, I’m driving.” 

Somehow, they get as far as the outskirts of the neighborhood before Matt realizes—  

“You still don’t know where we’re fucking going.” 

Parson shrugs nonchalantly. 

“You’re going to murder me in the middle of the fucking desert, aren’t you,” Matt deadpans. 

“No, that was Tuesday’s plan, but I can move it up if you want,” he chirps. 

Matt sighs, taking off the cap of his camera lens as he turns it off. “Whatever, just take me somewhere I can get some goddamn filming done.” 

Parson turns on the radio, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. 

“What do you wanna film, Matty? People, animals, a fucking babbling brook?” 

“Don’t call me Matty,” he says. “...People, I guess. I can take nature shots whenever.” 

Parson smirks. “Cool, I know just the place.” 

He expects Parson to drag him to the strip or a casino or something. Somewhere crowded and dingy because people like equating moral ambiguity with artistic originality. He doesn’t expect to end up at an outdoor gallery of neon signs. Something about the Neon Museum is so kitschy it’s almost disgusting.  _ Almost. _

The sun is setting as Parson leads them into one of the exhibits. Neon mixed with the dwindling desert light creates this perfect iridescent scene for Matt to capture. He starts filming, weaving slowly around the crowds. The good thing about using a traditional camera for film is that people are less apprehensive about having it around. 

He expects Parson to ditch him, either within the boneyard or leave him entirely without a ride home. But once again, he proves to be less of a dick than Matt assumed he would be. Parson sticks by him, pointing out signs he knows the history of or what he thinks are interesting shots. For the most part, he’s right about the shots. He’s got a knack for interesting angles and lighting. 

“You a photographer or something?” Matt asks him at some point. 

He shakes his head. “Just knew someone who really loved photography.” 

Matt watches Parson get this glazed look in his eyes when he says, “Only time he was really… himself, honestly.” 

Parson gets a few wandering eyes and a few things to autograph from strangers. He’s gracious about the attention, surprised even. It confuses Matt more than anything. What did Parson expect? He’s the Aces’ leading scorer, he’s twenty with a Stanley Cup and Calder under his belt. He’s as much a tourist attraction as these signs. But every time someone treats him like he’s a big deal, he shrugs them off. 

“That’s really nice of you to say,” Parson says about a hundred times that night. 

An hour and a half after sunset, it’s getting a bit chilly for Matt’s liking. Parson nudges him, asking if he wants to grab a bite to eat. 

“Sure,” Matt agrees. 

Parson drives them to sushi restaurant that’s the size of a closet. 

“You know I’m not Japanese, asshat,” Matt says after the waiter takes their orders. 

“Duh,” Parson says. “You’re clearly Vietnamese.”

“You like the taste of your own mouth?” 

“Nah, just like seeing the look on your face when I rile you up a little.”

“You’re an ass,” Matt says. 

Parson smirks. “Thanks, I happen to like mine.” 

“Does being cute get you out of being shitty?”

“You think I’m cute?”  

Matt blushes. He knows he should be able to deal with homophobic shit like this by now but—  

Parson puts his hand over one of Matt’s. 

“Hey,” Parson says quietly. “I was really asking. I didn’t mean for it to come off like—”

“Like what?” 

“Exactly what you think I am,” Parson mutters. “Some entitled white cis prick giving into heteronormative narratives on toxic masculinity.” 

Matt raises his eyebrows. “Those are some big words from a guy who’s took bashing heads in over college.” 

Parson chuckles, it has a hollow, dark quality to it. “What can I say? I’m full of surprises?” 

He watches Parson take a big gulp of water. Parson stares at the hand he won’t move from Matt’s. If Matt weren’t queer, and admittedly attracted to this douchebag, he would’ve told him to fuck off by now. 

“Look, I wanna apologize for the other day,” Parson says.  

“Which one?”

“You know fucking well which one.” Parson has the decency to blush. “When I went all psycho on you after that game?” 

“Yea, that was fucking crazy,” Matt agrees.  

Parson slowly retreats his hand, shrugging. “I’m sorry. You put my best friend in danger, and that was fucking uncool of you. But the way I got… that wasn’t about you in the slightest, and you didn’t deserve that shit. I’m sorry. I, uh, totally get it if you don’t trust me or want me on your line ever again or whatever.” 

Matt leans back, watching Parse carefully. The guy’s a dick, but not the kind he’s used to. He’s never seen anyone get so worked up over someone else’s well being before. Sure, he’s got a few loose screws, but no one can fake that kind of loyalty. Matt sighs, grabbing Parse’s hand. 

“You don’t get to be cute and nice,” he chirps. “Gotta pick one.” 

Parse smiles. Not smirks, but really fucking smiles as he laughs. 

“Why?”

“Because it’s not fair to the rest of us,” Matt chirps.  

Parse squints. “The rest of us being… queer brown dudes? ‘Cause if so, fair enough, I’ll let the rest of you catch up.” 

Matt thinks if he were drinking something right then, he’d spit it out completely. Fucking Kent Parson makes coming out look like the most casual thing ever. 

“You do this with all your friends?” 

“Depends, are we friends, Park?” Parse smirks like the coy asshole he is. 

Matt shrugs because he’s kind of an asshole too. 

“Guess we are, Parse.” 

“Might as well make it official. You can call me Kent,” he says, offering a fist bump that Matt reluctantly returns. 

“I’m Matt, you can call me Parker,” he offers. “Call me Matty again, and I’ll fucking kill you.” 

Kent fucking cackles before asking if he’s ever seen  _ Sleepless in Seattle _ . Matt groans. It’s going to be a long two years. 

_/.\\_ 

_ It’s Kessler to Higgins to Kessler… he scores! _

_/.\\_ 

Despite a decent rally in the second period, the Aces lose three to two against the Nashville Predators. The team is quiet and stoic as they file back into the locker room. Jeff takes it as a small miracle that Coach Price is arguing quietly with Moore outside so he hasn’t started ripping them a new one yet. 

“Ok,” Jeff says quietly. “Before you-know-who comes in, that was a fucking solid game overall. I know our defense is hurting right now, but that was some of the best hockey we’ve played all season. Be proud.” 

The team, the guys under thirty especially, look slightly relieved by Jeff’s words. Even the older guys look a little less tired and worn. Jeff shakes his head. Droughts are rough for any team, but it doesn’t help that their coach is a fuckwad who doesn’t know a puck from a turd. 

Price chooses that moment to storm into the locker room. 

“Alright, who wants to tell me what fucking genius thought we could empty net in the last two minutes of that game?” Price shouts. 

Everyone stays silent, staring confusedly at each other. Jeff keeps his mouth shut. He doesn’t have the energy for this bullshit. So of course Kent stands up. 

“You made that call,  _ sir _ ,” Kent says defiantly. 

Price narrows his gaze. “That’s fucking impossible—”

“You want fucking proof? You screaming your head off at Fish to get off the ice was on the jumbotron, how much proof do you need? You want a fucking poll?” 

“I didn’t ask for your smart mouth Par— “

“No you didn’t,  _ sir _ ,” Kent say. “You asked for a dumb schmuck to answer your stupid question so you could go apeshit on them. Because that’s what you do.” 

“How dare you—”

“You’re an incompetent fuckcunt who gets his rocks off picking on kids half his age who have to follow his shitty, half-assed orders—”

“Parson, shut your mouth if you know what’s good for you,” Price warns. 

“What’re you gonna do about it? Yell at me some more?”  Kent walks slowly toward Price as his voice grows louder. “Call me a worthless waste of space who hits like a girl? Newsflash, Price, nothing you say is original. Nothing you do is close to intelligent. And if you think you can really hurt me with your half-assed threats, you must’ve had a real cushy life up until now.” 

Kent stares Price down as he stands in front of him. Kent presses his finger hard enough into Price’s chest that Price stumbles backward. 

“You think your words can hurt me? You think you have fucking leverage because you could what? ‘End my career?’” He laughs, it’s dry, cracked, and every bit wrong. “You have no clue what you’re dealing with. I’ve seen things that could break you with a single glance. You wanna talk about weakness on this team for the millionth time? Look in the fucking mirror, Price.” 

Kent pushes Price out of the way, staring Moore down. 

“See what happens if you don’t replace him,” Kent growls. “Go ahead, make my fucking day. It’s not my ass on the line if we don’t make it to first round this year.” 

Kent walks out of the locker room with an eerie calmness. As if he hadn’t made the stupidest move ever. Jeff meets Goose’s panicked look. The locker room remains eerily quiet while people change. Jeff takes post game interviews.   

“Sometimes we take a gamble and it pays off, sometimes we come up short,” he says when someone asks about the empty net at the end of the game. 

“What can your team take away from the losses of this season to improve next season’s strategy?” one reporter asks.

“Hey now,” Jeff says casually. “This season isn’t over yet. Let’s save that talk for locker clean ups. I’ll happily throw a pity party for you then.” 

The crowd laughs. Jeff takes it as a small win. Even when their city’s largely turned their backs on them, the press loves the Aces. 

After interviews, Jeff showers. Carter, Perry and Parker head home in one car while Jeff, Goose, and Perry try to find Kent. Hoping that he hasn’t done something stupid… stupider since he stormed off. 

They eventually find Kent hiding in the backseat of Perry’s car. Kent’s wrapped in a fetal position, hiding his face in the hoodie he stole from Jeff’s room the other day. Goose taps his arm lightly. 

“Kenny, c’mon,” Goose says gently. “Get up, it’s over.” 

Kent slowly uncurls himself. He sits up, taking off his hood. His eyes are blood red, cheeks teared stained, and his nose is dripping with snot. Goose pulls him closer, hugging him tightly.  

Kent trembles for a moment, wheezing as he asks, “Did it work?” 

Jeff hears someone laughing, it takes a second to realize it’s himself. “You fucking bastard, that was scary as shit. What were you thinking?” 

Kent shrugs, grinning through snot as he clings to Goose. “Gotta fight my own battles, right?” 

Part of Jeff wants to ask what the fuck he was thinking, but he knows Kent. He wasn’t thinking. He saw a problem, saw someone hurting people he loves, and needed to do everything in his power to fix it. Jeff drives them home, watching Perry coax Kenny to sleep in the back seat. 

Jeff’s hand finds its way into Goose’s. They take turns squeezing tighter as they ride in silence. 

It doesn’t surprise him in the slightest that the four of them end up in Perry’s bed when they get home. Kent’s wedged in the middle, sniffling fitfully until he eventually passes out from exhaustion. Even while asleep, he clings tightly to Jeff. 

In the darkness, he can still make out the concerned frown on Nathan’s face. Jeff doesn’t give it a second thought as he reaches over Kent to rub circles in his back. Neither does he question his urge to turn over, meeting Perry’s lips chastely. Kenny will wake up in the morning, apologize while covering every inch of each of them in kisses. Because that’s how Kenny proves he trusts them more than anyone in the entire fucking world, probably. Jeff doesn’t think about it too hard.  

It isn’t weird. It’s just something friends do.    

_/.\\_ 

_ He scores! Healey alone in front of the net again, unbelievable!  _

_/.\\_ 

“Moore, what a pleasant surprise,” Marcus says sarcastically as he answers the phone on a Tuesday night in early March. “What can I do for you?” 

“You need to get on a flight back to Vegas, tonight,” Moore demands. “You’re starting in tomorrow night’s game.” 

Marcus sneers. “I told you last week, Calvin’s post-concussion symptoms aren’t gone yet. He’s still getting used to the contacts and his memory’s shit.” 

They’ve been staying at his fathers’ house in Detroit ever since Calvin was released from the hospital in November. Victor and Terence have been nothing but accommodating and supportive. 

“I’m not talking about him.”

“Well, you’re not talking about me playing without him,” Marcus says. 

“Goddammit, Smith, we’re fifth in the Pacific Division right now. We could go back to back if we could just take a wild card slot. The team needs you,” Moore says. 

“There’s no way to fix that standing this late in season,” he argues. “We’d have to win every fucking game from tomorrow until the end of the season to make that happen.” 

“We could do it,” Moore insists. “If you’d just get your fucking ass back here. We need your plays—”

“You mean Price’s brilliant strategy isn’t working? I wonder why.” 

Moore sighs. “Yes, he’s a hack. We should’ve fired him years ago. You’re the reason we won last year. Happy?” 

“You think this is about notoriety or something? Moore, you’re barking up the wrong tree,” he says. 

“I don’t give a flying a fuck what this is about. Get your ass back here, fix the team, and I’ll make it worth your while.” 

Marcus purses his lips. He’s about to tell Moore to fuck off when he feels Calvin squeeze his shoulder. He sighs. 

“We’ll see, I might show up tomorrow morning for practice,” he says. “Either way, you’ll have your answer.” 

He hears Moore screaming but decides to hang up before he gives himself a headache. Marcus leans into Calvin’s touch, letting Calvin pull him into his lap. 

“Not fit to play, huh? That’s news to me” Calvin chirps.   

“You’re still getting used to your glasses, and your memory is shit,” Marcus says. 

“It was one movie,” Calvin argues. 

“It was  _ Weekend at Bernie’s _ , Calvin,” he says dramatically. “Acting like it’s just ‘some movie’ should be a crime.” 

Calvin chuckles before kissing Marcus’s temple. 

“You don’t want me back on the ice any more than I want you there,” Calvin says. 

“Is that selfish?” he asks quietly. “It’s just so…” 

Marcus watches it happen again in slow motion. The forward tries to check Calvin against the board. His elbow slips, and goes straight for Calvin’s head. He watches the trainer try to get Calvin to respond. The crowd’s screams are drowned out by the sound of ringing in his ears. Everything’s still too bright, too loud, and too petrifying. 

“Raw… it plays over and over again, every single time I close my eyes,” Marcus admits, trembling a bit.

Calvin hums. Marcus readjusts them so he can bury his head in Calvin’s neck. There’s a reason they negotiated their last contract together. It took so long to be together that being split up by hockey wasn’t an option. Even if they knew that, realistically, sooner or later hockey would tear up their lives in some way. 

“Moore wants you for your plays,” Calvin says, breaking the silence.

Marcus backs up, staring at him curiously. “Yea, and?” 

“Fix the team, don’t get back on the ice,” Clavin says with a shrug. ”Seems easy to me.” 

Marcus glares at him for a second as his mind puts two and two together. As long as Marcus turns the team around, it doesn’t matter if he has ice time. Well, it probably matters for his contract, but he’ll leave that to his lawyers to settle later. If they even need to, that is. 

Maybe they can turn this season around. 

He kisses Calvin heatedly. “You ridiculous mountain man, once again your brilliance is second only to your beautiful ass.” 

Calvin snorts. “Yea, sure. Let’s go pack.” 

He didn’t need to tell Marcus twice. They’re able to catch a redeye from Detroit to LAX and then take turns driving their rental car to Vegas. The highway goes on forever. The desert’s never felt as desolate and unnerving as it does now that it’s keeping them from getting home. 

They could be a thousand miles away or ten feet away, that’s what makes the desert such a bitch. It’s so starved for life that it takes whatever it can and sucks it dry, mangling it into something different. Mirages exist in Vegas to trick people into staying past way past their welcome. 

If this were ten years ago, he would’ve taken the out and never returned. Even four years ago, he would’ve considered himself crazy to be coming back when his contract is about to expire and he could find a better team that would utilize him properly, or better, then retire quietly with Calvin.

For once, it isn’t a trick of the desert that’s drawing him back in. Sure, Moore’s being an ass. But there’s something bigger at stake. His boys need him… their family needs them to come home. 

Marcus chuckles as he parks in the lot in front of their tiny training facility. The place looks worse than the last time he saw it. After the season they’ve had, it’ll take a few years until they can justify renovations again. Hopefully that’ll give Carter plenty of time to get the Little Aces up and running.                

He nudges Calvin awake. Calvin blinks his eyes slowly, looking around. 

“Here already, eh?” Calvin says. 

“Yep, home sweet hell,” Marcus says. 

Calvin grins, leaning over the center console to kiss Marcus. “We’ll manage.” 

“I’m sure you’re right,” he says with a grin. 

They grab their hockey bags out of the trunk, slinging them over their shoulders. Marcus feels a little giddy. This could go to shit, or they could have a new lease on their careers. The locker room is as loud as normal, Nicki Minaj is blasting from the stereo in the corner of the room. Everyone seems lost in their own thoughts until Kent looks up from his phone. 

“Holy fucking shit,” Kent says. 

The room goes quiet as thirty pairs of eyes look at Marcus and Calvin. Next to him hear hears Calvin chuckle. 

“C’mon guys,” Calvin says. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Understatement of the century, Cap,” Ozzy says. 

“Seriously, are you guys here? Like actually here,” Jeff says. “I’m not having another Nyquil induced fever dream?” 

Marcus smirks, shaking his head. The room’s buzzing with questions and excited shouts, but they don’t have time for that. They have a miracle to pull off. 

“Alright,” Marcus says with a clap, “who’s ready to start kicking ass again?”

_/.\\_

_ And Ville Leino ties the score at one!  _

_/.\\_ 

The worst part of the NHL is by far the locker room talk, Matt concludes. There’s always some shitty comment to be made, especially when Parson, the captain and A’s aren’t around. The worst offender by far is Erik Carlsen, aka fucking Carly. Matt swears this guy gets a hard on from acting like bigger shit than he really is. 

“Hey college boy,” Carly says before their game against the Avalanche. “You gonna teach those Colorado pussies the best way to bend over for their spanking?” 

“Only if you’re teaching them how to run away first,” Matt says. 

A few of the guys chuckle. Most guys would back down. But Carly is a sadomasochistic idiot. 

Carly whistles innocently before saying, “How were the puck bunnies up at that fancy school of yours? I hear they’re bigger up in Minnesota, hairier too.”

Matt snorts as he laces his skates. “Wouldn’t know, the girls up there tended to be human beings with their own fucking autonomy. Not the chew toys of a rabid chihuahua like you.” 

Chatter breaks out. Carly goes beet red.  

“Whatever, fag,” he says as he tapes his stick. 

Matt doesn’t have time to process whether he should respond or not when Smithy walks into the room. 

“Carly, you’re benched,” Smithy says, not looking up from his clipboard. 

Carly sputters. “What for?” 

“If you thought you could throw around a word like that and not face consequences, I really can’t trust your judgement,” he says. 

Carly throws his stick on the floor before storming out. 

Smithy shrugs. “Anyone have a problem with that?” 

A chorus of no’s filters through. Smithy gets down to logistics and who’s starting this game. As the team files out, Smithy stops Matt, putting a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, if anyone gives you shit, you need to tell us,” Smithy says. 

“I’m used to it,” Matt argues. “I can handle a little chirping.”

“That wasn’t chirping, that was straight up harassment,” he argues. “And maybe it isn’t so bad for you, but you’re not the only person on this team who has to deal with his shit. I can’t stop him unless I catch him or someone files a complaint. So do us all a favor, and let me do my job.” 

Matt nods. 

Smithy squeezes his shoulder. “And try not to fall on your ass, I don’t know what it is with you and high altitude, but that video from the DU game last year… was rough.” 

Somewhere behind him, Kent’s laughing. 

“Shut up, Parse,” Matt says. 

“Only if you ask nicely, Parker,” he chirps.  

“Kent,” Smithy warns. 

“Hear you loud and clear,” Kent says. 

Smithy squeezes his shoulder one more time before letting go. “Give it a little. You’ll fit in just fine.”          

_/.\\_ 

_ Versteeg moving up… Versteeg moving in! Score!  _

_/.\\_ 

Kent’s disturbed from his afternoon nap by the sound of his phone buzzing on the nightstand next to his bed. He lazily reaches for it. He looks at the name on the caller ID. It takes him a moment to register what it reads. 

_ Zimms  _

A spike of fear shoots through his entire body. He sits up immediately, catching his breath for a second. He needs to be calm. Whatever this is, he has to play it cool. It’s probably just a butt dial. Jack never calls him, not anymore at least. 

“Hey,” he answers the phone quietly. 

All he hears is heavy breathing right against his ear. 

“Can you hear me?” Kent asks. 

He hears something like a strangled affirmation. Kent’s blood runs cold. He’s drowning again. 

“Hey, why don’t you hold onto something?” Kent says. “Could be your shirt or shoes, or just… anything you can touch for a while ok? Focus on what it feels like. Is it soft? Is it cold? What do you like about it?” 

He hears something like a hum, making him release a breath he didn’t know he was holding. It’s ok, he keeps reminding himself. Jack’s letting him help, letting him fix something for once. He can work with this. He clutches his bed sheets tightly, trying to keep himself from going under too.  

“Deep breaths, Zimms,” he says. “In five counts, hold for six, and out for seven. Just listen to my voice, ok? I’ll help you. You’re not alone.” 

He counts slowly and softly. Kent does this as Jack’s breathing grows steadier and quieter. 

“I’m fine now,” Jack says eventually. His voice is raspy and trembling, but Kent knows better than to push when Jack insists he’s alright. 

“Ok,” Kent says. 

They don’t say anything for a long time. Kent wonders what there is to say. If Jack called just for help or because there was something he has to say. Kent watches dust particles float in the streams of light leaking through the window shades. He swallows harshly, desperately licking his chapped lips. 

“Listen, you don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to,” Kent says. “But I’m always here for you. Whatever it is, I got your back.” 

“You don’t mean that,” Jack says. 

“Of course I do,” he insists. “As long as you’re safe and happy, I’m happy.” 

“Ok,” Jack says. 

“So are you?” 

“I don’t know,” Jack admits. “I have to get back to my team, bye Kenny.” 

He hangs up promptly after saying that. Kent’s left staring at the wall for an hour after that. What is he supposed to do to make Jack understand that he’ll always be there for him? 

Later that day, he finds out that Samwell was knocked out of the playoffs. He hands Jeff his phone before finding a quiet place to scream. Not for the first time in his life, Kent thinks he’d give anything for Jack’s world to stop revolving around hockey.   

_/.\\_ 

Nathan wakes up in the middle of the night to the sound of the bathroom door crashing. He bolts up, immediately noticing that the other side of the bed is empty and cold. He’s about to grab his cell phone to call someone, anyone, when he feels a hand on his shoulder. 

“Hey, no it’s fine,” Kent whispers. 

Nathan sighs, reaching for Kent, who slowly climbs on top of him. He breathes heavily as he wraps his arms around Kent, inhaling deeply into his hair. He’s probably smelled Kent’s coconut hair products enough to hallucinate them. But it helps; it reminds Nathan that they’re both still here and ok. He feels his chest tighten, assuming it’s a panic attack. 

“I’m sorry,” Kent murmurs, squeezing him tighter. “I didn’t mean to, fuck, I swear—” 

“I know you didn’t,” he manages to say. 

He feels Kent kiss his cheek. It’s firm enough to ground him, to remind him that this is all real.   

“What did you eat for dinner last night,” Kent asks him. 

“Lasagna, you were there,” Nathan says.

“What’s your favorite band?”

“That’s a trick question.” 

“What’s my favorite band?” Kent asks.

“Britney Spears,” he murmurs. 

He can feel Kent glaring as he says, “She’s an angel, not a band.” 

“Do you have a favorite band?” 

“I could,” Kent says indignantly. 

Nathan laughs. He feels Kent smile into his collarbone before kissing it. 

“How are you feeling now?”  

“Better,” Nathan says. “Thanks for… not letting me spiral.” 

“No problem, it’s literally what I’m here for,” Kent says quietly.  

Nathan frowns. “That’s not… you know you’re not just here to do damage control for me right?” 

“Duh,” Kent says sarcastically. “It’s ‘cause I’m a great lay.” 

“Kent, this is serious.” 

Kent groans. “What do you want me to say?” 

“That you know I love you and you matter to me because of who you are, not what you do for me,” Nathan says. 

“Ok, yea, sure.”   

“Say it,” he says. 

“Why does it matter?” Kent asks  

“Because you sink yourself into other people until there’s nothing left of you.” 

“What the literal fuck, Nathan?” 

Kent gets off him, grabbing his sweatpants off the floor, putting them on furiously. 

“Where are you going?” 

“I don’t fucking know,” Kent says. “I just… can’t do this right now.” 

“This is isn’t healthy, we need to talk about it,” he says. 

“Sure, later.” 

Kent walks out of the door half naked. Nathan falls against the bed, sighing loudly. He feels like an idiot. Whether it’s from pushing too hard or for loving someone as self-destructive as Kent, he can’t tell. His stomach is twisting into knots thinking about what Kent could be doing at four o’clock in the fucking morning. 

His phone buzzes. 

 

_ Kenny 4:04 am _

_ I’m downstairs. I’m fine.  _

_ Goodnight.  _

 

Nathan finds him asleep on the couch ten minutes later. He picks Kent up and brings him back to bed. In the morning he’ll complain about being manhandled, and they’ll argue while Kent furiously ignores the elephant in the room. He’ll tell Nathan that he’s fine, and that he should mind his own business. They never even talked about why Kent slammed the bathroom door—  

He winces. It was the bathroom. Kent was dealing with his own shit, and focused on Nathan instead. Kent unconsciously tucks himself into Nathan’s side. Whether he realizes it or not, Kent’s an idiot too. He has a thing for Canadian hockey players who are emotionally fucked up and have shit coping mechanisms. 

Nathan buries his head in Kent’s hair once again. 

“Go to bed, babe,” Kent murmurs. “You’re safe.” 

He doesn’t get much sleep the rest of the night, wondering who Kent is talking to in his sleep.   

_/.\\_ 

_ Parson’s breaking away… score! Oh what a beauty! Kent Parson! Third shorty of the season!   _

…

_ Back in front of Subban… score! A little tricky dicky do by Park!  _

…

_ Here’s Ortiz to Harris, and he scores!  _

_ … _

_ Clifford out of the box… and he scores! Oh right out of the box. This doesn’t bode well for the Aces... _

_/.\\_ 

Marcus stares at his wristwatch, swallowing thickly. The restaurant that the new Aces’ owner, Felix LeBlanc, chose when Marcus requested a lunch meeting with him is on the higher end of Las Vegas eateries. It’s one of the best French restaurants in the city, and their dress code is strict, and the meeting is crucial, so Marcus put on his best forest green suit for the occasion. I

The entire situation is a gamble that he could lose at any second. The whole season has been a flurry of calling in favors and pooling as many resources as possible. It’s all too big and too important to fail. Marcus takes a long sip of water, silently hoping he isn’t about to fuck everything up. 

A waiter escorts Felix over. Even two decades after the end of his NHL career, Felix is the pinnacle of health. He’s lean and fit in a perfectly tailored grey suit that matches his salt and pepper hair. Marcus stands up to greet him, offering him a steady handshake. 

“Thanks for meeting with me today,” Marcus says as they sit down. 

“It’s no problem, Marcus,” Felix says. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your uncle Harvey’s passing,” he says. 

Felix frowns. “Well, thank you, but that makes one of us. So, what do I owe the pleasure of meeting with my star player?” 

Marcus chuckles. “I thought we’re here so I could flatter you.” 

Felix laughs. “What can I say? The Aces is a pet project that has always been close to my heart. If it weren’t for you, the face of the franchise, I’m not sure if this team would still be here.” 

He nods, sighing. “I’m sure you saw the news from November—”

“The accident, yes,” Felix hums as he flags down their waiter. After ordering them a bottle of red wine, he continues talking, “I’m very sorry about that, Marcus. How is Calvin doing?” 

“Better, thank you for asking,” 

“And will he be resigning with us next season?” 

Marcus shakes his head. “I’m afraid even if he wanted to, he couldn’t give the team the same dedication he used to. It’s not fair for anyone involved.” 

Felix nods. “How unfortunate. But I understand.” 

Marcus watches Felix take a long sip of his glass of wine. 

“We aren’t here to lament the career of your husband, I assume,” Felix says. 

Marcus chuckles. “You’ve always been perceptive.” 

He shrugs with an easy grin. “Someone has to be. The world would be a tragically dull place if I weren’t there to intervene in the lives of others.” 

Marcus swallows, nodding slowly. “Felix, you have to know your staff is widely incompetent.” 

Felix raises his eyebrows. “That can be said of most straight men in sports.” 

“Yes, but most straight men don’t harass and abuse their employees,” Marcus says. “Or enable someone else to do it for them.” 

Felix takes another drink of wine, frowning. “Why tell me about this now? Surely this isn’t a new phenomena.” 

“It’s not, but Price used to more reasonable,” he argues. “And Moore used to be less desperate, and Ward used to have a backbone. You can’t tell me that any of them are easy to deal with this season.” 

Felix sighs. “No, I’ve been leaving Moore to his own devices. He’s a slimy little worm.” 

“He needs replacing.” 

“Indeed,” Felix agrees. “Do you have any suggestions?” 

“Myself, for one,” Marcus says, as he reaches for his briefcase underneath the table. He pulls a folder out, sliding it across the table to Felix. “However, if you feel like that would be a conflict of interest, I have a short list of twenty candidates to fill the GM, Assistant GM, and head coach positions. All of them come with expert experience, glowing references, and extreme vetting on my part.” 

Felix hums as he skims through the manilla folder. “And they all seem to be… among our friends.” 

“Would that be such a bad thing?” 

“I suppose not,” he says. “It could cause some chatter in the league. We could lose money. Are you willing to accept financial responsibility if that happens?” 

“Nothing will happen. But if it does, I’m more than prepared to fix whatever situation arises,” Marcus says.  

“Are you sure?”

“Bettman is nothing compared to a racist enforcer who’s heard a few rumors,” Marcus argues. “You of all people should know that. Words and lawsuits can’t hurt me, but hockey fights can.” 

“Very well, consider yourself hired as General Manager for the Aces,” Felix says. “I’ll have my lawyers draft a new contract for you.”

“Thank you, Felix. You won’t regret this.” 

“I’m sure I will,” he says. “Now tell me who will replace you in the franchise. That Harris boy is nice, but you know his mother will sue me for all I’m worth if his mental health slips even a hair.” 

Marcus sighs. “Well, that was one thing Moore and I actually agree on. It needs to be Kent Parson.” 

Felix purses his lips, then shakes his head. “No, that’s too risky.” 

“You know the media loves him, fans loves him… he’s pretty hard to hate, Felix,” Marcus says. 

“I can’t,” Felix says. “No matter how much money or favors Robert tries to bribe me with.” 

“Kent’s a good player,” he insists.  

“Yes I know she is,” Felix says flippantly. 

“ _ He _ is one of the best players in the league,” Marcus says firmly. “He’s going to break Bob’s records, Mario’s, and Wayne’s.”

Felix smirks. “And mine?” 

“You know he will,” Marcus says. “He isn’t Bob’s pet project. He’s the best chance you’ve got at another cup. You’ve seen him play. He’s the fastest guy out there with the softest hands. The only thing that ever stops him is himself.”    

Felix sucks on his own lip, deliberating for a moment. Finally, he says, “If anyone, and I mean anyone, outside the team finds out what it took to get Parson on this team, we’ll be ruined. All of us. You understand this?”

“Perfectly,” he promises. 

“Very well,” Felix says. “Let’s enjoy dinner, and toast to your new team.” 

Marcus grins for Felix, ignoring the feeling of dread pooling in the pit of his stomach.  

_/.\\_ 

Kent’s dreaming. He knows this because he’s screaming in the corner of Jack’s bathroom in Montreal. He’s lost any sense of time. It’s been too long, that’s all he knows. Too long since he’s thought of this place as a simple bathroom in a loving (albeit upscale) house. Too long since Jack looked at him with warmth. Too long since he could stand to look at himself in the mirror. 

He wants to sink into the ground and suffocate there. Maybe if he turns just right, he’ll bury himself in his pillow. Then things will be over. He’ll wake up and be safe, or he won’t. But it wouldn’t matter if he didn’t, because at least then his nightmare of a life would be over. At least he could stop fighting every fucking day to feel alright—or stable, or even just good enough that physical pain wouldn’t feel like a relief from his own fucking brain. 

“Get up, dummy,” a voice says. 

Kent doesn’t recognize the voice, but it’s feminine and bossy—  

“C’mon, you can do it,” they say again. “Here, I’ll help you.” 

He feels a hand on his shoulder. Kent looks up, finding a face that looks eerily familiar. Her dark brown hair and eyes are like something out of a postcard he saw long ago. She nudges him. 

“Let’s get you out of here,” she says. “You don’t belong here anymore.” 

He feels something wet slip down his cheek. “You don’t know that.”  

“Fuck Montreal, remember?” she says, tugging him toward the front door of the house. “C’mon, you deserve better than this.” 

Kent nods quietly, feeling hesitant that her statement is true in the slightest. He’s never felt like he’s deserved… anything really. His life has been a series of dumb luck situations and really poor choices. 

“Let’s lock this place up for a while,” she says as they walk out the front door of the Zimmermann’s house. “Give me your key.” 

He’s about to argue that it’s at his mom’s place when he feels something in his back pocket. He takes it out, handing it to her. She locks it for him before putting the key on a chain and placing it around her neck. It’s then that he notices a birthmark that looks like a bird on her tan chest. He narrows his eyes. He’s seen her before; he’s sure of it. 

“Go home, Kenny,” she says. 

He shakes his head. “You just locked me out.” 

She rolls her eyes, crossing her arms. “You’re a bigger dummy than, Nathan. You know that? No wonder he loves you. You bleed love even harder than he does.” 

Kent wrinkles his nose. He stares at her again, finally piecing together who she is. 

“Nehal?” 

“Yea?” she says. 

“Why are you doing… this?” he asks. 

She looks at him, smiling sadly before pulling him into a hug. “Because you’re an idiot, and if I let you do something stupid to yourself, it’ll break my baby brother.” 

“Ok,” he says, hugging her tighter. Hurting Nathan is the last thing he wants to do, ever. 

“You gonna go back to Vegas now?” Nehal asks. 

“I guess.” 

“You gonna open up more and let other people know what’s going on with you?” 

“No promises,” he says. 

Nehal sighs. “Good enough for now. I’ll have to shake the stupid out of you later.” 

Before he can ask what’s that supposed to mean, Kent opens his eyes. It’s late morning by how brightly light is leaking through the shutters in his room. He groans, pulling the covers over his head. He reaches out until his hand finds a chest. He scoots closer to Nathan, grumbling as the rests his head on Nathan’s shoulder.

Nathan chuckles, kissing his forehead. “Bad dream?” 

Kent shrugs. “Some busybody kept calling me a dummy.”      

_/.\\_ 

Calvin hears a knock at their front door. Locker cleanouts are happening this week, Marcus’ family knows to come visit them this summer. They’re too busy focusing on restaffing the administration and strategizing for the draft. Next season might be a rebuild, whether they like it or not.  

When he opens the door, Calvin’s face splits into a smile he forgot he could have. 

“Andy, nice of you to finally visit,” he says. “How are you?” 

She chuckles as he reaches out to hug her. “I thought I told you, it’s Kellen now.” 

“Right, sorry, still getting used to the new name,” he says. 

“That’s alright, I’ll take hockey names over deadnames any day.”

“Well c’mon in.” He ushers her inside. “What brings you here?” 

“Your husband thinks he can convince me to take a coaching position,” she says 

“That’s because I know you want it,” Marcus shouts from the kitchen. “Perfect timing, by the way, lunch is just about ready.” 

Calvin leads Kellen into the house. She takes a critical look around as Calvin helps Marcus set the table. 

“Your sense of style has gotten better, West,” she chirps. 

“Nah, that’s all Marcus,” he admits.

Marcus hums, kissing him as he places their plates on the table. He sits down next to Calvin and across from Kellen. 

“So, how can I convince the most beautiful NHL gold medalist to come work for the queerest team in the entire league?” Marcus asks. 

Kellen laughs. “Don’t let Sticks hear you say that.” 

“Ah, she’ll forgive me once I offer her a PR job,” Marcus says. 

Kellen smirks indulgently. “You really think you can take every queer person who’s ever played in the league and stick them all in one building? I don’t know, Marcus, that could get… dramatic.” 

“Well not  _ every _ queer person, but I can try.” 

Kellen looks at him cryptically. There’s a gleam in her eye that tells Calvin she’s already made up her mind. “Tell me more, maybe we can work something out.”  

_/.\\_ 

“Congrats, Kenny, you’re our new captain.”

Kent stares at Smithy, dumbfounded. When Smithy called him into his new office, he expected some sort of “don’t be belligerent with me” shovel talk. Not… this. 

“You’re shitting me,” Kent says. “You can’t do this, Smithy. You know how fucking stupid I can be.” 

“With yourself, yea. You’re the biggest idiot on the planet,” Smithy argees, turning in his new desk chair. “But you’re the soul of this team. There’s no one who works harder on or off the ice than you, Kent. Don’t you think that deserves recognition?”

Kent feels his hands tremble as his chest constricts. “I can’t… fuck, Smithy I’m not a leader. I don’t know the first thing about—”

“Kiddo, I love you… so much more than I think you realize,” he says softly. “And if you need time to pretend that this isn’t gonna work or to process or whatever, that’s fine. But you’re this team’s captain. You’ve been their captain in everything but name all season. I need you to realize that, and accept it.” 

Kent trying to breathe, but his face feels numb. “Smithy I… I can’t ok? I can’t do that to these guys.” 

Smithy gets up, walking around his desk. He kneels in front of Kent, rubbing his arm comfortingly. 

“I get that it’s a lot, but Kenny, you’ve been helping them. You’re a good kid, ok? I don’t know what you’re scared of, but I promise can work on it together.” 

Kent feels something trail down his face. Smithy hugs him tightly. He hears someone crying, he distantly thinks it might be him. 

“We’re gonna get you a therapist,” Smithy tells him. “Not because you need to feel a certain type of way, but because you aren’t ok. I can’t let you keep hurting yourself, ok?” 

Kent clutches him tighter. “Ok.”  

_/.\\_ 

“Kent,” a reporter says during end of the season interviews. “What can you tell us about the Aces’ strategy for next season? How does the team’s failure this season affect your captaincy?” 

Media smiles are the best part of dealing with the press, Kent thinks. They’re easier than breathing. Easier than taking the time to actually suss out his shitty ass feelings. Something bad boils under his skin, and he pushes it down. Stuffs it way under where the sun won’t shine. Maybe when he gets home he’ll cry about the things he can’t change. Or maybe he’ll get lost on his way home and end up stranded in the desert. He can’t tell what’ll happen until he’s in the thick of it. 

It’s the only way he knows how to get through another day. 

Kent smirks for the cameras. “I’m not worried. Every day’s a new opportunity, and I’m excited about the changes this organization is making. We’re all going to go home to our families and loved ones to get some perspective, remember what we’re out here doing eighty two plus games a year for. I know when we get back in the fall, it’ll be a new season, new team, and totally awesome experience.”   

_/.\\_ 

Perry hears the doorbell ring. Rosa mutters that she’ll get it. He doesn’t think much of it until he hears Rosa screaming. He gets up, bolting toward the entrance. Rosa’s crushing Nadia in a hug. He can hear her sobbing as Nadia rubs her back. 

“Calmate, mi reina,” Nadia whispers. “Estas bien. Estas conmigo.”

Rosa cries harder. “I’m sorry.” 

Nadia smiles through tears. “It’s ok. I’ve got you. I always got you.” 

Perry watches Teresa and Magdalena come inside with enough luggage to be here… a while. He raises an eyebrow, and Magdalena shrugs as if this should’ve been a logical expectation for Perry. Teresa hips checks him. “Looks like you’re stuck with us for a while.”  

Perry laughs as Teresa drops the bags she’s carrying and clings to him tightly. 

“I can live with that,” he says. 

_/.\\_ 

“If we keep driving, we could be in Provo by sun down,” Ozzy says from the passenger’s seat. 

Carter shrugs. “We could… or we could go ziplining.” 

Ozzy looks at him blankly. “And you… want to zipline?” 

“Maybe? I just… want to make sure we can take breaks if we need to. See the world and not just drive by it, you know?”

Ozzy huffs, looking out at the Welcome to Utah sign. “As long as it’s shit you really want to do, I will always be up for it.” 

“You mean it?” 

Ozzy leans over the console. Carter turns, accepting the kiss he’s offering. 

“Duh,” Ozzy says. “Whatever you want, just promise me you’ll ask.” 

Carter feels his stomach flip. He really loves love.

_/.\\_

Jeff tests out the new key Trish sent him a few weeks back. He didn’t have time to come home for his birthday, but she and Josh promised to make it up to him. The key fits perfectly, unlocking the front door of the new house with ease. 

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. That feeling of not belonging hasn’t totally faded. Maybe he should talk to someone about that… eventually. 

He slings his duffel bag over his shoulder, opening the door. 

“Mom? Dad?” Jeff shouts, the sound of shuffling from upstairs calms him. “I’m home.”   

_/.\\_ 

Matt almost runs into the Assistant Director his first day on set, literally. He’s hold a box of walkies with some props for the art department stacked high when he hears someone shout, “Incoming,” causing him to stop in his tracks. 

“Good reflexes,” she says. “I’m impressed.” 

Matt blushes. “Thank my other job. Kinda have to be good at stopping.” 

“Well, hot shot, you look like you could use a hand,” she says. 

“Seriously? Thank you.” 

“Eh, you’re just lucky I was headed in this direction,” she says. “Here, lower your stack so I can take those quilts off your hands. Help you see a little bit.” 

“Thanks,” he says. 

After she takes the quilts away, he can see her face. She’s short with curls tighter than Lilah’s. She stares at him curiously. 

“Do I have something on my face?” Matt tries to joke. 

“No… it’s just…” she cuts herself off. “This is going to sound… really crazy, but has anyone ever told you you like an NHL player?” 

“A few times,” he says amicably.

“Yea, sorry, that’s weird,” she says. “My cousin’s sort of a big deal out in Providence? So I try to catch games on cable. And you… really look like one of the Vegas players.” 

Matt smiles, shrugging. “Don’t worry, happens all the time.”  

_/.\\_

The best part about the off season in Harlem is that no one gives a fuck if Kent’s semi-famous. He’s still just Mariana’s loyal son and Izzy’s weird older brother. He gets to blast the music from his old stereo while he makes breakfast in the kitchen.                                                         Nathan sleeps in most mornings. He walks quietly into the kitchen, hugging Kent from behind before kissing his neck. Kent blushes, leaning backwards enough kiss Nathan’s cheek. “Hey, beautiful, breakfast’s almost ready,” Kent tells him. Nathan grins tiredly, kissing him back. “I’ll grab the juice.” 

“You should take your meds while you’re at it,” Kent says as casually as possible. 

“You sure?” he hears Nathan ask hesitantly. 

He shrugs, trying to pawn it off as no big deal. Because maybe it shouldn’t be, maybe he’s been holding on too tightly to the idea that meds hurt people. Maybe he can’t stop Nathan from abusing shit, but he should trust Nathan enough to let him know what’s going on in his world. 

Nathan comes back a minute later with one pill in hand. He shows it to Kent before taking it. 

Kent frowns. “But—”

“I know what you said… but I know you mean well and I know it helps you to see me take it as much as it helps me remember to take my meds.” 

Nathan kisses his temple. Kent isn’t sure he knows how love is supposed to work, but with Nathan he isn’t scared of failing. He knows they’ll figure it out eventually. 

There’s a loud banging on the front door. Kent huffs, it’s probably one of the neighbors asking for help with something or other. 

"I got it," Kent says, turning off the stove before turning around. He reaches up to kiss Nathan because he’ll never get tired of reminding him how much he loves him. 

The thing about life, Kent’s realized, is how important it is to appreciate the important moments. Sometimes important moments mask themselves as insignificant, everyday occurrences. So he has to try to savor the good moments before they disappear on him. He lets the sensation of Nathan’s lips against his warm his body. He keeps the smile on his face as he opens the door because his real smiles are few and far apart these days. 

He opens the door, feeling his smile fade as he find Jack Zimmermann standing at his front door. 

“Hey, Kenny," he says, licking his chapped lips as he straightens his red Samwell Men’s Hockey shirt. 

Some things, Kent realizes, aren’t good or bad. They just are.

**Author's Note:**

> Ok a lot of people to thank and a lot of notes to make: 
> 
>  Thank you to Kat and Jayme for beta-ing. Big thanks to Allison, Abigail, and Gizelle for cheer-reading and keeping me going. Huge thanks to Tony who kept me in this fandom through some hard months as well as Alice, CJ, and a lot of other people who's love for my queer brown hockey dweebs kept this project going. 
> 
>  Big thanks to Matt/Omgpieplease for everything he's done for this project! Unfortunately, because of life he's not able to continue on with this series. If you'd like to see anything illustrated from this series in the future, I would highly recommend checking out his [ commission info. ](https://omgpieplease.tumblr.com/post/159614777752/edit-2252018-please-read-through-everything)
> 
>  
> 
> You can listen to the year three playlist [on spotify.](https://open.spotify.com/user/palateens/playlist/14arwN2Kdgxla2cHb3UAMx?si=XRzv73BLRNivN2MbYWuqdw)


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